“It’s my surmise that there’s a right small percentage of the meat that goes to fill Crowfoot’s contracts with the railroad that is dressed out of steers wearing his own brand,” Carver said. “Of course, he’s too smart to cut in on his neighbors, and they don’t bother to get curious as long as they know their own strays are safe on his range. But it’s my guess that if a steer from some foreign outfit turns up on the Turkey Creek range he’ll get converted into beef overnight.” Lassiter grinned and wagged a negative head. “Now you wouldn’t go and suspect Crowfoot of filling his beef contracts at other folks’ expense,” he reproved. “Besides, how could he when it’s the law that whenever a cow critter is butchered its hide must be hung on the fence till it’s been inspected and passed?” “And our present hide inspector would ride miles out of his way rather than meet a fresh hide face to face,” Carver testified. “I expect maybe Crowfoot kills out a batch of his own steers, about every third slaughtering. That way there’d always be enough fresh hides of his own brand hanging round the place to make it look right. But he wouldn’t dress out any more of his own till after one batch of pelts was too dried out to answer. He’s not that improvident.” “Well, maybe not,” Bart said. “I couldn’t say for sure. What has Crowfoot done to you to start you commenting on his habits?” “Not anything!” Carver confessed. “I don’t even lose sleep over what he’s doing to other folks. I’m generalizing, kind of. Things are changing rapid and a man had better let his glance rove a few years ahead.” “Hadn’t he, though?” Bart concurred. He didn’t inquire as to the nature of Carver’s proposition, for it mattered not at all. “We’ll put on our telescopes and spy out a soft berth for the future. That’s us. You can count me in till the hair slips.” With this casual promise they separated. Carver reviewed his recent utterances with some doubt as he rode across the divide. “That’s the first time I ever aspired to turn evangelist,” he said. “And I’m awkward at it. The rôle don’t become me any to speak of, but I’ve committed myself to take Bart in hand.” Three days later he rode again to the little sod house on the spring-creek. He came upon it from behind, his horse’s hoofs making but slight sound on the springy turf. Not until he had dismounted and rounded the corner on foot did he discover that a saddled horse stood on the far side of the house. He stopped short, wondering which of the three brothers might be at home. While he hesitated a man’s voice sounded from within, and it was not that of any one of the Lassiters. He took another step toward the door but halted again as he detected a threat in the tones of the man inside. “You listen to reason or I’ll have Bart locked up for the rest of his natural life,” the voice proclaimed. “And that within the next two days. I know his whereabouts on a certain night two years ago, when a saloon in Taosin was ransacked.”