“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.

“Why, I jest tossed it to him—­when I—­sort of j’ined in with the argyment.  We was tusslin’ some an’ I didn’t want no gun.”

How characteristic of cowboys that they lied to shield Jack Belllounds!  But it was futile to attempt to deceive the old rancher.  Here was a man who had been forty years dealing with all kinds of men and events.

“Bludsoe, you can’t fool me,” said old Bill, calmly.  He had roared at them, and his eyes still flashed like blue fire, but he was calm and cool.  Returning the gun to its owner, he continued:  “I reckon you’d spare my feelin’s an’ lie about some trick of Jack’s.  Did he bust out?”

“Wal, tolerable like,” replied Bludsoe, dryly.

“Ahuh!  Tell me, then—­an’ no lies.”

Belllounds’s shrewd eyes had rested upon Wilson Moore.  The cowboy’s face showed the red marks of battle and the white of passion.

“I’m not going to lie, you can bet on that,” he declared, forcefully.

“Ahuh!  I might hev knowed you an’ Jack’d clash,” said Belllounds, gruffly.  “What happened?”

“He hurt my horse.  If it hadn’t been for that there’d been no trouble.”

A light leaped up in the old man’s bold eyes.  He was a lover of horses.  Many hard words, and blows, too, he had dealt cowboys for being brutal.

“What’d he do?”

“Look at Spottie’s mouth.”

The rancher’s way of approaching a horse was singularly different from his son’s, notwithstanding the fact that Spottie knew him and showed no uneasiness.  The examination took only a moment.

“Tongue cut bad.  Thet’s a damn shame.  Take thet bridle off....  There.  If it’d been an ornery hoss, now....  Moore, how’d this happen?”

“We just rode in,” replied Wilson, hurriedly.  “I was saddling Spottie when Jack came up.  He took a shine to the mustang and wanted to ride him.  When Spottie reared—­he’s shy with strangers—­why, Jack gave a hell of a jerk on the bridle.  The bit cut Spottie....  Well, that made me mad, but I held in.  I objected to Jack riding Spottie.  You see, Hudson was hurt yesterday and he appointed me foreman for to-day.  I needed Spottie.  But your son couldn’t see it, and that made me sore.  Jack said the mustang was his—­”

“His?” interrupted Belllounds.