“Oh,” said the novice, with a sweeping gesture, “there’s plenty of unclaimed range.  There’s ample grass and water on this creek to graze five thousand cattle.”

“Wells Brothers estimate that the range, tributary to the Beaver, will carry ten thousand head the year round,” replied Forrest, languidly indifferent.

“Who are Wells Brothers?” inquired the newcomer.

Forrest turned to the stranger as if informing a child.  “You have the name correct,” said he.  “The brothers took this range some time ago, and those cattle that you met up the creek are theirs.  Before you round up any cattle and drive them out, you had better look into the situation thoroughly.  You surely know and respect range customs.”

“Well,” said the stranger explosively,—­they mustn’t expect to hold the whole country with a handful of cattle.”

“They only took the range recently, and are acquiring cattle as fast as possible,” politely replied Forrest.

“They can’t hold any more country than they can occupy,” authoritatively asserted the novice.  “All we want is a range for a thousand cows, and I’ve decided on that hackberry grove as headquarters.”

“Your hearing seems defective,” remarked Forrest in flute-like tones.  “Let me repeat:  This is headquarters for Wells Brothers.  Their range runs from the trail crossing, six miles below, to the headwaters of Beaver, including all its tributaries.  Since you can’t stay for dinner, you’ll have time to ride down to the crossing of the Texas and Montana trail on this creek.  There you’ll find the posted notice, so that he who runs may read, that Wells Brothers have already claimed this range.  I’ll furnish you a pencil and scrap of paper, and you can make a copy of the formal notice and show it to your partner.  Then, if you feel strong enough to outrage all range customs, move in and throw down your glove.  I’ve met an accident recently, leaving me a cripple, but I’ll agree to get in the saddle and pick up the gauntlet.”

The novice led his horse aside as if to mount.  “I fail to see the object in claiming more range than one can occupy.  It raises a legal question,” said he, mounting.

“Custom is the law of the range,” replied Forrest.  “The increase of a herd must be provided for, and a year or two’s experience of beginners like you usually throws cattle on the market.  Abundance of range is a good asset.  Joel, get the gentleman a pencil and sheet of paper.”

“Not at all necessary,” remarked the amateur cowman, reining away.  “I suppose the range is for sale?” he called out, without halting.

“Yes, but folks who prefer to intrude are usually poor buyers,” shouted the crippled Texan.

Joel was alarmed and plied Forrest with a score of questions.  The boy had tasted the thrill of ownership of cattle and possession of a range, and now the envy of others had threatened his interests.