"How're they comin', stranger?" he asked, with no great expression in
either eyes or voice.
"Where's Brayley?" demanded Conniston, quickly.
"He ain't here none jest now. No, he ain't exac'ly ran away, nuther.
Brayley ain't the kind as runs away. He was sent for to come to the
Lone Dog, where there's some kind of trouble on. Seein' as that's
thirty mile or worse, the chances is he'll ride mos' all night an'
won't be back for a day or two."
Conniston sank back upon his straw pillow. "What I have to say to him
will keep," he said, quietly.
The red-headed man looked at him curiously. "Brayley's the boss on
this outfit, pardner. What he says goes as she lays. It's sure bad
business buckin' your foreman. If you can't hit it up agreeable like,
you better quit."
For a moment Conniston lay silent, plucking with nervous fingers at
the worn red quilt.
"What did he do to me?" he asked, presently. "Hit me over the head
with a revolver?"
Lonesome Pete nodded.
"That's what you call fair play out in the West?"
"What fooled me, Conniston, is that he didn't drill a couple er holes
through you! He ain't used to bein' so careful an' tender-hearted-like,
Brayley ain't."
"Just because I'm to work under him, does that mean that in the eye of
you men he had a right--"
An uplifted hand stopped him. "When two men has onpleasant words it
ain't up to anybody else to say who's right.
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