"Ahuh!... I'm sure interested this minute," replied Moore, and then,
stepping to the side of the mustang, with swift hands he unbuckled the
cinch, and with one sweep he drew saddle and blanket to the ground.

The action surprised Belllounds. He stared. There seemed something
boyish in his lack of comprehension. Then his temper flamed.

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded, with a strident note in his
voice. "Put that saddle back."

"Not much. It's my saddle. Cost sixty dollars at Kremmling last year.
Good old hard-earned saddle!... And you can't ride it. Savvy?"

"Yes, I savvy," replied Belllounds, violently. "Now you'll savvy what I
say. I'll have you discharged."

"Nope. Too late," said Moore, with cool, easy scorn. "I figured that.
And I quit a minute ago--when you showed what little regard you had
for a horse."

"You quit!... Well, it's damned good riddance. I wouldn't have you in
the outfit."

"You couldn't have kept me, Buster Jack."

The epithet must have been an insult to Belllounds. "Don't you dare call
me that," he burst out, furiously.

Moore pretended surprise. "Why not? It's your range name. We all get a