profit. But before she could reply, the prince-consort spake up with
calm decision:

"You drive that bunch to Zimmerman and Nesbit's pens. I spoke to
Zimmerman about it some time ago."

Bud turned on his high boot-heels.

"Wait!" called Santa quickly. She looked at her husband with surprise
in her steady gray eyes.

"Why, what do you mean, Webb?" she asked, with a small wrinkle
gathering between her brows. "I never deal with Zimmerman and Nesbit.
Barber has handled every head of stock from this ranch in that market
for five years. I'm not going to take the business out of his hands."
She faced Bud Turner. "Deliver those cattle to Barber," she concluded
positively.

Bud gazed impartially at the water-jar hanging on the gallery, stood
on his other leg, and chewed a mesquite-leaf.

"I want this bunch of beeves to go to Zimmerman and Nesbit," said
Webb, with a frosty light in his blue eyes.

"Nonsense," said Santa impatiently. "You'd better start on, Bud, so as
to noon at the Little Elm water-hole. Tell Barber we'll have another
lot of culls ready in about a month."

Bud allowed a hesitating eye to steal upward and meet Webb's. Webb saw
apology in his look, and fancied he saw commiseration.