The foreman of the Flying V Y was riding with the owner of the brand at
the drag end of the herd. He was a hard-faced citizen known as Joe
Yankie. When Wrayburn had finished his story, the foreman showed a row of
tobacco-stained teeth in an unpleasant grin.

"Same old stuff, Dad. There always is a bunch of bucks off the
reservation an' they're always just goin' to run our cattle away. If you
ask me there's nothin' to it."

Young Thursday flushed. "If you'll ride out with me I'll show you their
trail."

Yankie looked at him with a sneer. He guessed this boy to be about
eighteen. There was a suggestion of effeminacy about the lad's small,
well-shaped hands and feet. He was a slender, smooth-faced youth with
mild blue eyes. It occurred to Webb, too, that the stranger might have
imagined the Apaches. But in his motions was something of the lithe grace
of the puma. It was part of the business of the cattleman to judge men
and he was not convinced that this young fellow was as inoffensive as he
looked.

"Where you from?" asked the drover.

"From the San Carlos Agency."

"Ever meet a man named Micky Free out there?"

"I've slept under the same tarp with him many's the time when we were
followin' Chiricahua 'Paches. He's the biggest dare-devil that ever
forked a horse."