“Damn you—come down!” he shouted, infuriated at the mustang, and with both hands he gave a powerful lunge. Spottie came down, and stood there, trembling all over, his ears laid back, his eyes showing fright and pain. Blood dripped from his mouth where the bit had cut him.
“I'll teach you to stand,” said Belllounds, darkly. “Moore, lend me your spurs. I want to try him out.”
“I don't lend my spurs—or my horse, either,” replied the cowboy, quietly, with a stride that put him within reach of Spottie.
The other cowboys had dropped their trappings and stood at attention, with intent gaze and mute lips.
“Is he your horse?” demanded Jack, with a quick flush.
“I reckon so,” replied Moore, slowly. “No one but me ever rode him.”
“Does my father own him or do you own him?”
“Well, if that's the way you figure—he belongs to White Slides,” returned the cowboy. “I never bought him. I only raised him from a colt, broke him, and rode him.”
“I thought so. Moore, he's mine, and I'm going to ride him now. Lend me spurs, one of you cowpunchers.”
Nobody made any motion to comply. There seemed to be a suspense at hand that escaped Belllounds.
“I'll ride him without spurs,” he declared, presently, and again he turned to mount the mustang.
“Belllounds, it'd be better for you not to ride him now,” said Moore, coolly.
“Why, I'd like to know?” demanded Belllounds, with the temper of one who did not tolerate opposition.
“He's the only horse left for me to ride,” answered the cowboy. “We're branding to-day. Hudson was hurt yesterday. He was foreman, and he appointed me to fill his place. I've got to rope yearlings. Now, if you get up on Spottie you'll excite him. He's high-strung, nervous. That'll be bad for him, as he hates cutting-out and roping.”
The reasonableness of this argument was lost upon Belllounds.
“Moore, maybe it'd interest you to know that I'm foreman of White Slides,” he asserted, not without loftiness.
His speech manifestly decided something vital for the cowboy.
“Ahuh!... I'm sure interested this minute,” replied Moore, and then, stepping to the side of the mustang, with swift hands he unbuckled the cinch, and with one sweep he drew saddle and blanket to the ground.
The action surprised Belllounds. He stared. There seemed something boyish in his lack of comprehension. Then his temper flamed.
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded, with a strident note in his voice. “Put that saddle back.”
“Not much. It's my saddle. Cost sixty dollars at Kremmling last year. Good old hard-earned saddle!... And you can't ride it. Savvy?”
“Yes, I savvy,” replied Belllounds, violently. “Now you'll savvy what I say. I'll have you discharged.”
“Nope. Too late,” said Moore, with cool, easy scorn. “I figured that. And I quit a minute ago—when you showed what little regard you had for a horse.”
“You quit!... Well, it's damned good riddance. I wouldn't have you in the outfit.”
“You couldn't have kept me, Buster Jack.”
The epithet must have been an insult to Belllounds. “Don't you dare call me that,” he burst out, furiously.
Moore pretended surprise. “Why not? It's your range name. We all get a handle, whether we like it or not. There's Montana and Blud and Lemme Two Bits. They call me Professor. Why should you kick on yours?”
“I won't stand it now. Not from any one—especially not you.”
“Ahuh! Well, I'm afraid it'll stick,” replied Moore, with sarcasm. “It sure suits you. Don't you bust everything you monkey with? Your old dad will sure be glad to see you bust the round-up to-day—and I reckon the outfit to-morrow.”
“You insolent cowpuncher!” shouted Belllounds, growing beside himself with rage. “If you don't shut up I'll bust your face.”
“Shut up!... Me? Nope. It can't be did. This is a free country, Buster Jack.” There was no denying Moore's cool, stinging repetition of the epithet that had so affronted Belllounds.
“I always hated you!” he rasped out, hoarsely. Striking hard at Moore, he missed, but a second effort landed a glancing blow on the cowboy's face.
Moore staggered back, recovered his balance, and, hitting out shortly, he returned the blow. Belllounds fell against the corral fence, which upheld him.
“Buster Jack—you're crazy!” cried the cowboy, his eyes flashing. “Do you think you can lick me—after where you've been these three years?”
Like a maddened boy Belllounds leaped forward, this time his increased violence and wildness of face expressive of malignant rage. He swung his arms at random. Moore avoided his blows and planted a fist squarely on his adversary's snarling mouth. Belllounds fell with a thump. He got up with clumsy haste, but did not rush forward again. His big, prominent eyes held a dark and ugly look. His lower jaw wabbled as he panted for breath and speech at once.
“Moore—I'll kill—you!” he hissed, with glance flying everywhere for a weapon. From ground to cowboys he looked. Bludsoe was the only one packing a gun. Belllounds saw it, and he was so swift in bounding forward that he got a hand on it before Bludsoe could prevent.
“Let go! Give me—that gun! By God! I'll fix him!” yelled Belllounds, as Bludsoe grappled with him.
There was a sharp struggle. Bludsoe wrenched the other's hands free, and, pulling the gun, he essayed to throw it. But Belllounds blocked his action and the gun fell at their feet.
“Grab it!” sang out Bludsoe, ringingly. “Quick, somebody! The damned fool'll kill Wils.”
Lem, running in, kicked the gun just as Belllounds reached for it. When it rolled against the fence Jim was there to secure it. Lem likewise grappled with the struggling Belllounds.
“Hyar, you Jack Belllounds,” said Lem, “couldn't you see Wils wasn't packin' no gun? A-r'arin' like thet!... Stop your rantin' or we'll sure handle you rough.”
“The old man's comin',” called Jim, warningly.
The rancher appeared. He strode swiftly, ponderously. His gray hair waved. His look was as stern as that of an eagle.
“What the hell's goin' on?” he roared.
The cowboys released Jack. That worthy, sullen and downcast, muttering to himself, stalked for the house.
“Jack, stand your ground,” called old Belllounds.
But the son gave no heed. Once he looked back over his shoulder, and his dark glance saw no one save Moore.
“Boss, thar's been a little argyment,” explained Jim, as with swift hand he hid Bludsoe's gun. “Nuthin' much.”
“Jim, you're a liar,” replied the old rancher.
“Aw!” exclaimed Jim, crestfallen.
“What're you hidin'?... You've got somethin' there. Gimme thet gun.”
Without more ado Jim handed the gun over.
“It's mine, boss,” put in Bludsoe.
“Ahuh? Wal, what was Jim hidin' it fer?” demanded Belllounds.