you're to blame, Joe. Perhaps you're just unlucky. But the
fact stands that I'm losin' more cattle on this range than at any one of
my other three ranches or all of 'em put together."

"We're nearer the hills than they are," the foreman replied sulkily.

"I don't want excuses, but results, Joe. However, I came to talk about
that gather of beeves for Major Strong."

Webb talked business in his direct fashion for a few minutes, then
strolled away. The majordomo watched him walk down to the corral. He
could not swear to it, but he was none the less sure that the
Missourian's keen eye was fixed upon a sweat-stained horse that had been
traveling the hills all night.

Chapter XXIII

Murder from the Chaparral

Webb was just leaving for one of his ranches lower down the river when a
horseman galloped up. The alkali dust was caked on his unshaven face and
the weary bronco was dripping with sweat.

The owner of the Flying V Y, giving some last instructions to the
foreman, turned to listen to the sputtering rider.

"They--they done run off that bunch of beeves on the berrendo," he
explained, trembling with excitement.

"Who?"

"I don't know. A bunch of rustlers. About a dozen of 'em. They tried to
kill me."

Webb turned to Yankie. "You didn't leave this man alone overnight with
that bunch of beeves for Major Strong?"

"Sure I did. Why not?" demanded the foreman boldly.

"We'll not argue that," said the boss curtly, "Go hunt you another job.
You'll draw yore last pay-check from the Flying V Y to-day."

"If you're loaded up with a notion that some one else could do better--"

"It's not yore ability I object to, Yankie" cut in the ranchman.

"Say, what are you insinuatin'?" snarled the segundo.

"Not a thing, Yankie. I'm tellin' you to yore face that I think you're a
crook. One of these days I'm goin' to land you behind the bars at Santa
Fe. No, don't make another pass like that, Joe. I'll sure beat you to
it."

Wrayburn had ridden up and now asked the foreman a question about some
calves.

"Don't ask me. Ask yore boss," growled Yankie, his face dark with fury.

"Don't ask me either," said Webb. "You're foreman of this ranch, Dad."

"Since when?" asked the old Confederate.

"Since right this minute. I've fired Yankie."

Dad chewed his cud of tobacco without comment. He knew that Webb would
tell him all he needed to know.

"Says I'm a waddy! Says I'm a crook!" burst out the deposed foreman.
"Wis