John
Short had been nicknamed Smoky Jack because of his indefatigable
efforts to clear his own brush-hills by fire. Across his saddle was a
long-barrelled, old-fashioned rifle. Mintie glanced at it.
"Was that you who fired jest now?"
"Nit," said Smoky. "I heard a shot," he added. "'Twas the old man. I'd
know the crack of his Sharp anywheres. 'Tis the dead spit o' mine.
There'll be buck's liver for supper sure."
"Why are you carryin' a gun?"
"I thought I might run acrost a deer."
"No other reason?"
Beneath her steady glance his blue eyes fell. He replied with
restraint--
"I wouldn't trust some o' these squatters any further than I could
sling a bull by the tail. Your Pap had any more trouble with 'em?"
Mintie answered savagely:--
"They're a-huntin' trouble. Likely as not they'll find it, too."
Smoky grinned. Being the son of an old settler, he held squatters in
detestation. Of late years they had invaded the foothills. Pap Ransom
was openly at feud with them. They stole his cattle, cut his fences,
and one of them, Jake Farge, had dared to take up a claim inside the
old man's back-pasture.
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