work down here, if a jigger could just get the bulls. But them Herefords don’t travel well
over rough country—their hoofs won’t take it. Reckon folks hereabouts will hafta wait until the railroads come along before
they try anything like that.”
Brant nodded, his eyes thoughtful. “You happen to know that feller?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” Loring replied, “know him well. Nice feller.”
“Reckon he has quite a few of those Hereford bulls on hand by now.”
“Uh-huh, reckon he has. He brought them in and some other bulls he called Galloways. Kept his pure stock bunch up that way.”
Brant nodded again, but did not pursue the conversation. He had already learned, in the course of talks with Loring, from
just where in Oklahoma the old man originated.
Another busy week followed. Then, one morning, John Webb received some disquieting news.
“A nester’s moved in down on the southwestrange,” one of his line riders informed Webb. “He’s shoved in a big herd and is buildin’ a ranch house. Got a salty lookin’
bunch of hands with him.”
Webb let out a roar of rage. He summoned Austin Brant and half a dozen of his most trustworthy hands.
“We’ll just see about this,” he raged as they saddled up. “No blankety-blank nester is goin’ to squat on my range. I got enough
troubles without that. Come on, you hellions, stir your stumps. We got things to do.”
South by west they rode, at a fast clip. As they drew nearer the location in question, a peculiar sound reached their ears,
coming from beyond a long straggle of thicket they were paralleling. It was a metallic whining and creaking, punctuated by
a rhythmic clicking which Brant soon catalogued as the ring of axes on wood. They rounded the thicket and came upon a scene
of great activity.
Over to the left was a fairly deep and narrow canyon, one of the many off-shoots of the Palo Duro. From its wooded depths
came the clang of axes. On the near lip were clustered a number of men.
“Cutting timber down in the gulch and bringing it to the surface with wire pulleys,” Brant said. “Look, there goes a wagonload
now.”
Rumbling across the prairie some distance ahead was a huge wagon drawn by eight horses. It was loaded with newly cut logs.
Even as the Running W outfit drew near, a ponderous log came dangling up the canyon wall at the end of a long cable drawn by
a windlass on the lip of the gorge.
“No sod huts for that jigger, whoever he is,”Brant apostrophised the nester. “He’s going in for a regular casa. Means business.”
“I’ll business him!” growled old John, glaring at the workers on the canyon lip, who had paused from their labors and were
silently watching the approaching troop.
Brant said nothing. He had an uneasy premonition that Webb might run into considerable difficulty in the pro cess of “businessing”
the unknown nester.
The Running W bunch did not pause at the scene of operations on the canyon lip.
“They’re just hired hands—no use argifyin’ with them,” Webb said. “I want to do my talkin’ to the jigger responsible for this.”
Following the course taken by the wagon, they rode on. Soon they sighted a low rise whereon grew scattered trees. On the crest
of this rise the walls of a ranch house were already rising. Webb snorted like a steer tangled in a cactus patch. He quickened
the pace of his horse. In a compact body the Running W outfit charged up the hill.
As they drew near, they noted two men sitting their horses a little to one side of some construction and watching their approach.
One was a huge man, massive with the solid massiveness of a granite block. His companion was slender and sat his magnificent
bay horse with the natural grace accentuated by a lifetime in the saddle. Brant suddenly uttered an exclamation. Old John
swore under his mustache as they pulled up within a dozen paces of the motionless pair.
“Cole Dawson!” Webb bellowed. “Where
over rough country—their hoofs won’t take it. Reckon folks hereabouts will hafta wait until the railroads come along before
they try anything like that.”
Brant nodded, his eyes thoughtful. “You happen to know that feller?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” Loring replied, “know him well. Nice feller.”
“Reckon he has quite a few of those Hereford bulls on hand by now.”
“Uh-huh, reckon he has. He brought them in and some other bulls he called Galloways. Kept his pure stock bunch up that way.”
Brant nodded again, but did not pursue the conversation. He had already learned, in the course of talks with Loring, from
just where in Oklahoma the old man originated.
Another busy week followed. Then, one morning, John Webb received some disquieting news.
“A nester’s moved in down on the southwestrange,” one of his line riders informed Webb. “He’s shoved in a big herd and is buildin’ a ranch house. Got a salty lookin’
bunch of hands with him.”
Webb let out a roar of rage. He summoned Austin Brant and half a dozen of his most trustworthy hands.
“We’ll just see about this,” he raged as they saddled up. “No blankety-blank nester is goin’ to squat on my range. I got enough
troubles without that. Come on, you hellions, stir your stumps. We got things to do.”
South by west they rode, at a fast clip. As they drew nearer the location in question, a peculiar sound reached their ears,
coming from beyond a long straggle of thicket they were paralleling. It was a metallic whining and creaking, punctuated by
a rhythmic clicking which Brant soon catalogued as the ring of axes on wood. They rounded the thicket and came upon a scene
of great activity.
Over to the left was a fairly deep and narrow canyon, one of the many off-shoots of the Palo Duro. From its wooded depths
came the clang of axes. On the near lip were clustered a number of men.
“Cutting timber down in the gulch and bringing it to the surface with wire pulleys,” Brant said. “Look, there goes a wagonload
now.”
Rumbling across the prairie some distance ahead was a huge wagon drawn by eight horses. It was loaded with newly cut logs.
Even as the Running W outfit drew near, a ponderous log came dangling up the canyon wall at the end of a long cable drawn by
a windlass on the lip of the gorge.
“No sod huts for that jigger, whoever he is,”Brant apostrophised the nester. “He’s going in for a regular casa. Means business.”
“I’ll business him!” growled old John, glaring at the workers on the canyon lip, who had paused from their labors and were
silently watching the approaching troop.
Brant said nothing. He had an uneasy premonition that Webb might run into considerable difficulty in the pro cess of “businessing”
the unknown nester.
The Running W bunch did not pause at the scene of operations on the canyon lip.
“They’re just hired hands—no use argifyin’ with them,” Webb said. “I want to do my talkin’ to the jigger responsible for this.”
Following the course taken by the wagon, they rode on. Soon they sighted a low rise whereon grew scattered trees. On the crest
of this rise the walls of a ranch house were already rising. Webb snorted like a steer tangled in a cactus patch. He quickened
the pace of his horse. In a compact body the Running W outfit charged up the hill.
As they drew near, they noted two men sitting their horses a little to one side of some construction and watching their approach.
One was a huge man, massive with the solid massiveness of a granite block. His companion was slender and sat his magnificent
bay horse with the natural grace accentuated by a lifetime in the saddle. Brant suddenly uttered an exclamation. Old John
swore under his mustache as they pulled up within a dozen paces of the motionless pair.
“Cole Dawson!” Webb bellowed. “Where
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