"MacDonald, why don't you take out your naturalization papers so you
can vote at election? In the eyes of the law, you're still an alien."

"Alien? What has _that_ to do with paying grazing fees for sheep on
the Forest Range?" MacDonald's black eyes closed to a tiny slit of
shiny light. "Mr. Senator," he said tersely, "how much do you want?"

Mr. Senator refused to be perturbed by the edge of that question.

"You ask Wayland how much the grazing fee is. You know it's my belief
there ought to be no grazing fee. We stockmen can take care of
ourselves without Washington worrying--"

"Yes," interrupted Williams, "you took such good care of the sheep
herders last spring, some of you put them to eternal sleep."

"We're not living in Paradise or Utopia," assented Moyese. "We can
take care of our own. Men who won't listen to warning must look out
for stronger arguments; and it's a great deal quicker than carrying
long-drawn legal cases up to the Supreme Court. You sheepmen are
asking us to take care of you. I'm asking MacDonald to vote so he can
take care of us. Majority rules. What I'm trying to get at is which
side you are on! We're not taking care of neutrals and aliens--"

"Aliens." The low tense voice bit into the word like acid. "And I
suppose you're not taking care of pea-nut politicians either. My
ancestors have lived in this country since 1759. Mr. Senator, how many
generations have your people lived in this country?"