He contrived a casual, careless laugh. "All right, kid. I don't have to
rob the cradle to fill my private graveyard. Go get your Injuns. It will
be all right with me."

Webb drew a breath of relief. There was to be no gunplay after all. He
had had his own reasons for not interfering sooner, but he knew that the
situation had just grazed red tragedy.

"I'm goin' to take the boy's advice," he announced to Yankie. "Ride
forward an' swing the herd toward that big red butte. We'll give our
Mescalero friends a wide berth if we can."

The foreman hung in the saddle a moment before he turned to go. He had to
save his face from a public back-down, "Bet you a week's pay there's
nothin' to it, Webb."

"Hope you're right, Joe," his employer answered.

As soon as Yankie had cantered away, Dad Wrayburn, ex-Confederate
trooper, slapped his hand on his thigh and let out a modulated rebel
yell.

"Dad burn my hide, Jimmie-Go-Get-'Em, you're all right. Fustest time I
ever saw Joe take water, but he shorely did splash some this here
occasion. I wouldn't 'a' missed it for a bunch of hog-fat yearlin's."

Webb had not been sorry to see his arrogant foreman brought up with a
sharp turn, but in the interest of discipline he did not care to say so.