"Did you say cigars?" he asked, pushing a box across
the bar to an impatient customer. Another beckoned to him and he leaned
over to hear the whispered request, a frown struggling to show itself on
his face. "Nix; you know my rule. No trust in here."
But the man at the far end of the line was unlike the proprietor and he
prefaced his remarks with a curse. "_I_ know what's up! They want Jerry
Brown, that's what! An' I hopes they don't get him, the bullies!"
"What did he do? Why do they want him?" asked the man who had wanted
trust.
"Skinning. He was careless or crazy, working so close to their ranch
houses. Nobody that had any sense would take a chance like that,"
replied Boston, adept at sleight-of-hand with cards and very much in
demand when a frame-up was to be rung in on some unsuspecting stranger.
His one great fault in the eyes of his partners was that he hated to
divvy his winnings and at times had to be coerced into sharing equally.
"Aw, them big ranches make me mad," announced the first speaker. "Ten
years ago there was a lot of little ranchers, an' every one of 'em had
his own herd, an' plenty of free grass an' water for it. Where are the
little herds now? Where are the cows that _we_ used to own?" he cried,
hotly. "What happens to a maverick-hunter now-a-days? By God, if a man
helps hisself to a pore, sick dogie he's hunted down! It can't go on
much longer, an' that's shore.
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