“Is that so,” drawled the other, “an’ who says so?”
“I do,” said Bossick quietly, “and I’m only giving you a warning, Provine, which you’d better heed. You can take the word to Kate Cathrew, too. Her high-handed methods don’t set any too well with us—and we don’t care who knows it.”
“To hell with you and your warnings!” flared Big Basford, his ugly temper rising. “Sky Line’s too strong for any damned bunch of backwoods buckaroos, an’ don’t you forget it! We’re——”
“Shut up!” snapped Provine, and rode away.
“Selwood’s right,” mused Bossick as he looked after them, “they’re a precious lot of cut-throats.”
At Sky Line Ranch there was activity.
Kate Cathrew was gathering beef.
Riders were coming in daily with little bunches of cattle, all in good condition, which they herded into the corrals.
Day and night the air was resonant with the endless bawling.
It was a little early for the drive—but then Cattle Kate was always early. And this year she had a particular reason for precipitancy. One of those New York letters had said, “——would like to come a little sooner, if possible, so let’s clean up promptly.”