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Yankie closed his eyes wearily, but by sheer strength of will Prince recalled him from the doze into which he was slipping. "Did you kill Homer Webb?" "Yes." "Had Clanton anything to do with it?" "No." A film gathered over the eyes of the dying man. The lids closed. Billie adjusted the pillow a little more comfortably and rose. He could do no more for him at present and he must set about his work.
For though the net of the round-up had gathered hundreds of stolen cattle and most of those engaged in the business of brand-blotting, Prince knew his job would not be finished if Roush and Albeen escaped. He quartered over the ground foot by foot. The camp of the rustlers had been here and the footsteps showed there had been three. Yankie was accounted for. That left Roush and Albeen.
He went to Live-Oaks an' was seen to take the trail to the Ruidosa. Why?" "You've been spyin' on me," charged Yankie. He was under a savage desire to draw his gun but he could not shake off in a moment the habit of subordination bred by years of service with this man. "To let his fellow thieves know that he meant to leave a bunch of beef steers on the berrendo practically unguarded. That's why.
He called Goodheart to one side. "As soon as it's dark I'm goin' in to find out what's doin'. We haven't heard a murmur from these birds for hours. Perhaps they've flown. Anyhow, I'm goin' to find out." "How many of us are goin'?" "Just one of us Billie Prince." "If two of us went " "It would double the chances of discovery. No, I'm goin' alone. Maybe I can have a talk with Albeen or Yankie.
He knew that Webb would tell him all he needed to know. "Says I'm a waddy! Says I'm a crook!" burst out the deposed foreman. "Wish you joy of yore job, Wrayburn. You'll have one heluva time." "You will if Yankie can bring it about," amended the cattleman. He spoke coldly and contemptuously just as if the man were not present. "I've made up my mind, Dad, that he's in cahoots with the rustlers."
But Webb looked to the future. He hired two riders, gathered together a small remuda of culls, and went into the cattle business with energy. To-day the Flying V Y was stamped on forty thousand longhorns. The foreman of the Flying V Y was riding with the owner of the brand at the drag end of the herd. He was a hard-faced citizen known as Joe Yankie.
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.
Wrayburn had ridden up and now asked the foreman a question about some calves. "Don't ask me. Ask yore boss," growled Yankie, his face dark with fury. "Don't ask me either," said Webb. "You're foreman of this ranch, Dad." "Since when?" asked the old Confederate. "Since right this minute. I've fired Yankie." Dad chewed his cud of tobacco without comment.
"Hello, Reb!" "Hello, Go-Get-'Em! Thought Goodheart was bringin' you back a prisoner." Quantrell's old guerrilla looked with unconcealed surprise at the bound man. He knew the story of Clanton's deep-rooted hatred of the Roush clan. "I didn't sign any bond to stay his prisoner," Jim answered dryly. Then, sharply, he turned upon Roush. "Spill out yore story about Yankie."
Yankie jumped into the breach and began to talk. "I couldn't git away from the old man yesterday. I think he's suspicious about me. Anyhow, he acts like he is. I came in to Live-Oaks to-night without notifyin' him an' I got to be back in camp before mornin'. Here's my plan. I've got a new rider out from Kansas for his health. He's gun-shy.
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