grains fluttered to the ground, the man's fingers clutched towards the butt of his gun but the motion halted midway. Sheridan stood erect, thumbs hooked inside the belt of his own chaps.
"Whose calf are you going to brand, Hollister?" he asked.
The eyes of Hollister had something in common with those of the rattlesnake. In proportion they were set more closely. His mustache twitched in his sneer.
"So long 's it aint yore's, I don't see as it's any of yore bisiness," he answered, with a side glance towards the smoke a little way back of him, where the heads of two cayuses showed above the brush.
"It is mine," said Sheridan quietly. "Take off the rope."
"Talk's cheap. This is a maverick. "
"My calf, Hollister. I can prove it."
"How? Where's its mother?"
"You may know that better than I do. I know the calf is mine by the markings. I noticed it a few days after it was dropped. That red shoulder patch, shaped like a boot with a spur, is distinctive enough. I saw the calf earlier today. I've been trailing it with other strays."
Hollister guffawed.
"Trubble is with you, tenderfoot, yo're a stray yoreself an' don't know it. You don't belong on the range. Know its markings, do you? Well, I know the caf's mine by the patch on the underside that's shaped like a ha'f chewed hotcake." His voice changed to bluster. "You sneak back into the
