her.

"What about this man Bannister?" she flung out suddenly, after
they had cantered back to the house when the remuda had been
inspected.

Her abrupt question brought again the short, tense silence she
had become used to expect.

"He runs sheep about twenty or thirty miles southwest of here,"
explained McWilliams, in a carefully casual tone.

"So everybody tells me, but it seems to me he spills a good deal
of lead on my men," she answered impatiently. "What's the
trouble?"

"Last week he crossed the dead-line with a bunch of five thousand
sheep."

"Who draws this dead-line?"

"The cattlemen got together and drew it. Your uncle was one of
those that marked it off, ma'am."

"And Bannister crossed it?"

"Yes, ma'am. Yesterday 'Frisco come on him and one of his herders
with a big bunch of them less than fifteen miles from here. He
didn't know it was Bannister, and took a pot-shot at him. 'Course
Bannister came back at him, and he got Frisco in the laig."