“If you had proof, but you haven’t.  It’s a right doubtful policy for a man to stir up a rattler till it’s crazy, then to turn it loose in his bedroom.”

The Missourian turned to the business of the hour.  “We’ll get a posse out after the rustlers right away.  Dad.  I’ll see the boys an’ you hustle up some rifles and ammunition.”

Half an hour later they saw the dust of the cowpunchers taking the trail for the berrendo.

“I’ll ride down an’ get Billie Prince started after ’em.  I can go with his posse as a deputy,” suggested the ranchman.

To save Webb’s time, Dad rode a few miles with him while the cattleman outlined to him the policy he wanted pursued.

The sun was high in the heavens when they met, not far from Ten Sleep, a rider.  The cattleman looked at him grimly.  In the Washington County War just ended, this young fellow had been the leading gunman of the Snaith-McRobert faction.  If the current rumors were true he was now making an easy living in the chaparral.

The rider drew up, nodded a greeting to Wrayburn, and grinned with cool nonchalance at Webb.  He knew from report in what esteem he was held by the owner of the Flying V Y brand.

“Yankie up at the ranch?” he asked.

“What do you want with him?” demanded Webb brusquely.

“I got a message for him.”

“Who from?”

Clanton was conscious of some irritation against this sharp catechism.  In point of fact Billie Prince had asked him to notify Yankie that he had heard of the rustling on the berrendo and was taking the trail at once.  But Go-Get-’Em Jim was the last man in the world to be driven by compulsion.  He had been ready to tell Webb the message Billie had given him for Yankie, but he was not ready to tell it until the Missourian moderated his tone.

“Mebbe that’s my business—­an’ his, Mr. Webb,” he said.

“An’ mine too—­if you’ve come to tell him how slick you pulled that trick on the berrendo.”

Jim stiffened at once.  “To Halifax with you an’ yore cattle, Webb.  Do you claim I rustled that bunch of beeves last night?”

“I see you know all about it?” retorted Webb with heavy sarcasm.

“Mebbeso.  I’m not askin’ yore permission to live—­not just yet.”

Webb flushed dark with anger.  “You’ve got a nerve, young fellow, to go up to my ranch after last night’s business.  Unless you want to have yore pelt hung up to dry, keep away from any of the Flying V Y ranges.  As for Yankie, if you go back to yore hole you’ll likely find him.  I kicked the hound out two hours ago.”

“Like you did me three years ago,” suggested Clanton, looking straight at the grizzled cowman.  “Webb, you’re the high mogul here since you fixed it up with the Government to send its cavalry to back yore play against our faction.  You act like we’ve got to knock our heads in the dust three times when we meet up with you.  Don’t you think it.  Don’t you think it for a minute.  If I’ve rustled yore cattle, prove it.  Until then padlock yore tongue, or you an’ me’ll mix it.”