if they 've got a good outfit, nobody has got any chance agin 'em."
"Py Gott, dot's right!" grunted Schultz.
"Shore, it is," responded Towne, forgetting the game. "Take that Apache Hills run-in. Waffles did n't have no more right to that range than anybody else, but that did n't make no difference. He threw a couple of outfits in there, penned us in th' cabin, killed MacKay, an' shot th' rest of us up plenty. Then he threatened to slaughter our herd if we did n't pull out. By God, I 'd like to get a cowman like him up here, where th' tables are turned around on th' friends proposition."
"Hullo, boys!" remarked the bartender to the pair who came in.
"Just in time. Get chairs, an' take hands," invited Clayton, moving over.
"Who 's th' cowman yo 're talkin' about?" asked Baxter, as he leaned lazily against the bar.
"Oh, all of 'em," rejoined Towne surlily. "There 's one in town, now, who don't like sheep."
