“Wait!” called Santa quickly. She looked at her husband with surprise in her steady grey eyes.
“Why, what do you mean, Webb?” she asked, with a small wrinkle gathering between her brows. “I never deal with Zimmerman and Nesbit. Barber has handled every head of stock from this ranch in that market for five years. I’m not going to take the business out of his hands.” She faced Bud Turner. “Deliver those cattle to Barber,” she concluded positively.
Bud gazed impartially at the water-jar hanging on the gallery, stood on his other leg, and chewed a mesquite-leaf.
“I want this bunch of beeves to go to Zimmerman and Nesbit,” said Webb, with a frosty light in his blue eyes.
“Nonsense,” said Santa impatiently. “You’d better start on, Bud, so as to noon at the Little Elm water-hole. Tell Barber we’ll have another lot of culls ready in about a month.”
Bud allowed a hesitating eye to steal upward and meet Webb’s. Webb saw apology in his look, and fancied he saw commiseration.
“You deliver them cattle,” he said grimly, “to———”
“Barber,” finished Santa sharply. “Let that settle it. Is there anything else you are waiting for, Bud?”
“No, m’m,” said Bud. But before going he lin-
