"That's a lie." The voice of the girl broke for an instant to a sob. "Do
you think I don't know you're Brad Steelman's handy man, that you do his
meanness for him when he snaps his fingers?"

"You sure do click yore heels mighty loud, Miss." Dave caught in that
soft answer the purr of malice. He remembered now hearing from Buck
Byington that years ago Emerson Crawford had rounded up evidence to send
Shorty to the penitentiary for rebranding through a blanket. "I reckon
you come by it honest. Em always acted like he was God Almighty."

"Where is he? What's become of him?" she cried.

"Is yore paw missin'? I'm right sorry to hear that," the cowpuncher
countered with suave irony. He was eager to be gone. His glance followed
Doble, who was moving slowly down the street.

The girl's face, white and shining in the moonlight, leaned out of the
buggy toward the retreating vaquero. "Don't you dare hurt my father!
Don't you dare!" she warned. The words choked in her tense throat.

Shorty continued to back away. "You're excited, Miss. You go home an'
think it over reasonable. You'll be sorry you talked this away to me," he
said with unctuous virtue. Then, swiftly, he turned and went straddling
down the walk, his spurs jingling music as he moved.

Quickly Dave gave directions to his friend. "Duck back into the
restaurant, Bob. Get a pocketful of dry rice from the Chink. Trail those
birds to their nest and find where they roost. Then stick around like a
burr. Scatter rice behind you, and I'll drift along later. First off, I