“You might be.”  Molly’s face was now a mask of indifference, but there was no indifference in her heart.  There was cold fear.

Racey’s expression was likewise indifferent.  But there was no fear in his heart.  There was anger, cold anger.  For he had sensed what was coming.  He knew that the previous winter had been a hard one on the Dale fortunes.  They had lost most of their little bunch of cattle in a blizzard, and the roof of their stable had collapsed, killing two team horses and a riding pony.  Racey had conjectured that Mr. Dale would have been forced to borrow on mortgage to make a fresh start in the spring.  And at that time in the territory the legal rate was 12 per cent.  Stiff?  To be sure.  But the security in those days was never gilt-edged—­cattle were prone to die at inconvenient moments, and land was not worth what it was east of the Mississippi.

“We’ll take it I’m right,” pursued Lanpher, lapping his tongue round the words as though they possessed taste and that taste pleasant.  “And being that I’m right I’ll say yore paw could ‘a’ saved himself the ride to Marysville by stayin’ to home.”

Oh, Lanpher was the sort of man who, as a boy, was accustomed to thoroughly enjoy the pastime of pulling wings from living flies and drowning a helpless kitten by inches.

Now he nodded his head and grinned anew, and put up a satisfied hand and rubbed his stubbly chin.  Racey yearned to kick him.  It was shameful that Molly should be compelled to bandy words with this reptile.  Racey stepped forward determinedly, and slid past Molly.

Promptly she caught him by the sleeve.  “Don’t mix in, Racey,” she commanded with set face.  “It’s all right.  It’s all right, I tell you.”

“’Course it’s all right,” Lanpher hastened to say, more than a hint of worriment in his little black eyes.  One could never be sure of these Bar S boys.  They were uncertain propositions, every measly one of them.  “Shore it’s all right,” went on the 88 manager.  “I ain’t meaning no harm.  Yo’re taking a lot for granted, Racey, a whole lot for granted.”

“Nemmine what I’m taking for granted,” flung back Racey.  “I get along with taking only what’s mine, anyway.”

Which was equivalent to saying that Lanpher was a thief.  But Lanpher overlooked the poorly veiled insult, and switched his gaze to Molly Dale.

“I just rid over to say,” he told her, “that if yore paw is still set on renewing the mortgage when he comes back from Marysville he’ll have to see me and Luke Tweezy at the 88.  We done bought that mortgage from the bank.”

Molly Dale said nothing.  Racey felt that if he held his tongue another second he would incontinently burst.  He sidestepped past the girl.