I know?"

"Reckon no one, except Wils Moore."

"Is that cowboy here yet? I don't want him."

"Wal, I'll put him to chasin' varmints with the hounds. An' say, son,
this outfit is bad. You savvy--it's bad. You can't run that bunch. The
only way you can handle them is to get up early an' come back late.
Sayin' little, but sawin' wood. Hard work."

Jack Belllounds did not evince any sign of assimilating the seriousness
of his father's words.

"I'll show them," he said. "They'll find out who's boss. Oh, I'm aching
to get into boots and ride and tear around."

Belllounds stroked his grizzled beard and regarded his son with mingled
pride and doubt. Not at this moment, most assuredly, could he get away
from the wonderful fact that his only son was home.

"Thet's all right, son. But you've been off the range fer three years.
You'll need advice. Now listen. Be gentle with hosses. You used to be
mean with a hoss. Some cowboys jam their hosses around an' make 'em
pitch an' bite. But it ain't the best way. A hoss has got sense. I've
some fine stock, an' don't want it spoiled. An' be easy an' quiet with
the boys. It's hard to get help these days. I'm short on hands now....
You'd do best, son, to stick to your dad's ways with hosses an' men."

"Dad, I've seen you kick horses an' shoot at men" replied Jack.