“It’s not yore ability I object to, Yankie” cut in the ranchman.

“Say, what are you insinuatin’?” snarled the segundo.

“Not a thing, Yankie.  I’m tellin’ you to yore face that I think you’re a crook.  One of these days I’m goin’ to land you behind the bars at Santa Fe.  No, don’t make another pass like that, Joe.  I’ll sure beat you to it.”

Wrayburn had ridden up and now asked the foreman a question about some calves.

“Don’t ask me.  Ask yore boss,” growled Yankie, his face dark with fury.

“Don’t ask me either,” said Webb.  “You’re foreman of this ranch, Dad.”

“Since when?” asked the old Confederate.

“Since right this minute.  I’ve fired Yankie.”

Dad chewed his cud of tobacco without comment.  He knew that Webb would tell him all he needed to know.

“Says I’m a waddy!  Says I’m a crook!” burst out the deposed foreman.  “Wish you joy of yore job, Wrayburn.  You’ll have one heluva time.”

“You will if Yankie can bring it about,” amended the cattleman.  He spoke coldly and contemptuously just as if the man were not present.  “I’ve made up my mind, Dad, that he’s in cahoots with the rustlers.”

“Prove it!  Prove it!” demanded the accused man, furious with anger at Webb’s manner.

The ranch-owner went on talking to Wrayburn in an even voice.  “I’ve suspected it for some time.  Now I’m convinced.  Yesterday mornin’ I found him asleep in bed with his clothes on.  His horse looked like it had been travelin’ all night.  I made inquiries.  He went to Live-Oaks an’ was seen to take the trail to the Ruidosa.  Why?”

“You’ve been spyin’ on me,” charged Yankie.  He was under a savage desire to draw his gun but he could not shake off in a moment the habit of subordination bred by years of service with this man.

“To let his fellow thieves know that he meant to leave a bunch of beef steers on the berrendo practically unguarded.  That’s why.  I’d bet a stack of blues on it.  You’ll have to watch this fellow, Dad.”

The new foreman took his cue from the boss.  None the less, he meant just what he said.  “You better believe I’ll watch him.  I’ve had misgivin’s about him for a right smart time.”

“He’ll probably ride straight to his gang of rustlers.  Well, he can’t do us half as much harm there as here.”

“I’ll git you both.  Watch my smoke.  Watch it.”  With a curse the rustler swung his horse round and gave it the spur.  Poison hate churned in his heart.  At the bend of the road he turned and shook a fist at them both.

“There goes one good horse an’ saddle belongin’ to me,” said Webb, smiling ruefully.  “But if I never get them back it’s cheap at the price.  I’m rid of one scoundrel.”

“I wonder if you are, Homer,” mused his friend.  “Maybe you’d better have let him down easy.  Joe Yankie is as revengeful as an Injun.”

“Let him down easy!” exploded the cattleman.  “When he’s just pulled off a raw deal by which I lose a bunch of forty fat three-year-olds.  I ought to have gunned him in his tracks.”