“No rumpus ’tall. It’s just that there’s some in this country that’s busting with this here stuff what we call chivalry! We ain’t goin’ to mention no names, nor have no hard feelin’s. Y’ ain’t seen Holman lately?” The other squinted one eye and whistled. “Y’ ain’t goin’ t’ tangle with Holman, Billy?” The cowboy nodded. “Yep. But y’ needn’t say nothin’ to nobody. If you see a column of smoke and sparks comin’ up from that strip of green yonder, you can know that it’s from Holman and Billy Magee. Him an’ me is goin’ t’ have a little round-up.” “Better be careful, Billy. Don’t lose your head. You can’t hurt Holman. That crowd of Mexicans that he keeps will shoot you down like a rat. What’s the fuss? If it’s so dog-gone glorious let me in on it.” Billy grinned. “I’d like to be accommodating but this is kinda special. I want it all for myself. I’ll take care of the Mexicans. Will you mail this note?” “Make it a book. It’s your funeral.” “That’s what Holman said,” returned Billy Magee. “And it’s the truth. They’s goin’ to be something happen.” It took him a long time to write that letter. When he was through he took an envelope from his pocket. “Just happened to have the makin’s of a note. Here she is. Can you catch that stage?” “What’s the game?” But the cowboy had dug his spurs into the pony and was off down the straight section line that led through the domain of the Holman Land and Water Company. Billy Magee had a reason. He was mad clear through and the more he thought the madder he got. At last he came to the line fence that marked the border between the desert and the alfalfa. A broad gate barred his way. On the top board were the words: NO TRESPASSING Billy read the sign; it was a bit different from the one that the girl had pinned on the door. He swung the gate, cowboy fashion without alighting from his pinto; in another minute he was upon invaded territory. It did not bother Billy Magee. He rode straight on for a mile and a half--then he stopped. He was in the center of a great alfalfa field; to the left of him was a small building and an immense stack of alfalfa; from one side of the building a steady stream of water was flowing into a ditch that bore it out to the fields. Some men--Mexicans--were at the stack. Several teams with full loads were waiting their turn. One wagon was being unloaded. Just as he rode up a last fork of hay was mowed up toward the stack. Billy estimated the pile as close to two hundred tons. A man, evidently a boss, was coming toward him. Billy reached for his gun. “Hey!” said the man. “Hey, yourself,” said Billy Magee. The man stopped before the gun. He was a tall fellow, heavy, and though he was of a dark complexion he was not Spanish--rather was he Irish. And he was no coward. “What’s the idea?” indicating the gun. “Will it go off? What’cha want?” The cowboy rode up.