You've got
to pay for them dead cows, anyhow. If I do let you out you'll have to
road-brand me two hundred, or pay cash. My herd ain't worrying me--it's
moving all the time. It's through that other fence by now. An' if I have
to keep my outfit here to pen you in or shoot you off I can send to the
JD for a gang to push the herd. Don't make no mistake: yo're getting off
easy. Suppose one of my men had been killed at the fence--what then?"
"Well, what do you want me to do?"
"Stop this foolishness an' take down them fences for a mile each side
of the trail. If Buck has to come up here the whole thing'll go down.
Road-brand me two hundred of yore three-year-olds. Now as soon as you
agree, an' say that the fight's over, it will be. You can't win out; an'
what's the use of having yore men killed off?"
"I hate to quit," replied the other, gloomily.
"I know how that is; but yo're wrong on this question, dead wrong. You
don't own this range or the trail. You ain't got no right to close that
old drive trail. Honest, now; have you?"
"You say them six ain't hurt?"
"No more'n I said."
"An' if I give in will you treat my men right?"
"Shore."
"When will you leave."
"Just as soon as I get them two hundred three-year-olds."
"Well, I hate a quitter; but I can't do nothing, nohow," mused the 4X
foreman.
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