"Pshaw! It’s an old game with them," laughed Clayton. "Th’ law don’t get to them; an’ if they ’ve got a good outfit, nobody has got any chance agin ’em." "Py Gott, dot’s right!" grunted Schultz. "Shore, it is," responded Towne, forgetting the game. "Take that Apache Hills run-in. Waffles did n’t have no more right to that range than anybody else, but that did n’t make no difference. He threw a couple of outfits in there, penned us in th’ cabin, killed MacKay, an’ shot th’ rest of us up plenty. Then he threatened to slaughter our herd if we did n’t pull out. By God, I ’d like to get a cowman like him up here, where th’ tables are turned around on th’ friends proposition." "Hullo, boys!" remarked the bartender to the pair who came in. "Just in time. Get chairs, an’ take hands," invited Clayton, moving over. "Who’s th’ cowman yo’re talkin’ about?" asked Baxter, as he leaned lazily against the bar. "Oh, all of ’em," rejoined Towne surlily. "There ’s one in town, now, who don’t like sheep." "That so?" queried Baxter slowly. "I reckon he better keep his mouth shut, then." "Oh, he ’s all right! He ’s a jolly old geezer," assured the bartender. "He just talks to hear hisself—one of them old-timers what can’t get right to th’ way things has changed on th’ range. It was them boys that did great work when th’ range was wild." "Yes, an’ it’s them bull-headed old fools what are raisin’ all th’ hell with th’ sheep," retorted Towne, frowning darkly as he remembered some of the indignities he had borne at the hands of cowmen. "I wish his name was Waffles." Clayton smiled significantly. "Rainin’ again," remarked a man in the doorway, stamping in. "Reckon it ain’t never goin’ to stop." "Where you been so long, Price?" asked Clayton, as a salutation. "Oh, just shiftin’ about. That cow wrastler raised th’ devil in th’ hotel," Price replied. "Old fool! They brought him mutton, an’ he wanted to clean out th’ place. Said he ’d as soon eat barb’ wire. They ’re feedin’ him hash an’ canned stuff, now." "He ’ll get hurt, if he don’t look out," remarked Clayton. "Who is he, anyhow, Price?" "Don’t know his name; but he ’s from Arizona, on his way to th’ Pecos country. Says he ’s a friend of Buck Peters an’ Waffles. To use one of his own expressions, he ’s a old mosshead." "Friend of Waffles, hey?" exclaimed Towne. "Yumpin’ Yimminy!" cried Oleson, in the same breath. "Well, if he knows when he’s well off, he ’ll stay away from here, an’ keep his mouth closed," said Clayton. "Aw, let him alone! He’s one agin’ th’ whole town—an’ a good old feller, at that," hastily assured the bartender. "It ain’t his fault that Waffles buffaloed you fellers out of th’ Hills, is it? He’s goin’ on early tomorrow; so let him be." "You ’ll get yoreself in trouble, Jimmy, m’ boy, if you inserts yoreself in this," warned Towne. "It was us agin’ a whole section, an’ we got ours. Let him take his, if he talks too much."