The other cowboys had dropped their trappings and stood at attention, with intent gaze and mute lips.

“Is he your horse?” demanded Jack, with a quick flush.

“I reckon so,” replied Moore, slowly.  “No one but me ever rode him.”

“Does my father own him or do you own him?”

“Well, if that’s the way you figure—­he belongs to White Slides,” returned the cowboy.  “I never bought him.  I only raised him from a colt, broke him, and rode him.”

“I thought so.  Moore, he’s mine, and I’m going to ride him now.  Lend me spurs, one of you cowpunchers.”

Nobody made any motion to comply.  There seemed to be a suspense at hand that escaped Belllounds.

“I’ll ride him without spurs,” he declared, presently, and again he turned to mount the mustang.

“Belllounds, it’d be better for you not to ride him now,” said Moore, coolly.

“Why, I’d like to know?” demanded Belllounds, with the temper of one who did not tolerate opposition.

“He’s the only horse left for me to ride,” answered the cowboy.  “We’re branding to-day.  Hudson was hurt yesterday.  He was foreman, and he appointed me to fill his place.  I’ve got to rope yearlings.  Now, if you get up on Spottie you’ll excite him.  He’s high-strung, nervous.  That’ll be bad for him, as he hates cutting-out and roping.”

The reasonableness of this argument was lost upon Belllounds.

“Moore, maybe it’d interest you to know that I’m foreman of White Slides,” he asserted, not without loftiness.

His speech manifestly decided something vital for the cowboy.

“Ahuh!...  I’m sure interested this minute,” replied Moore, and then, stepping to the side of the mustang, with swift hands he unbuckled the cinch, and with one sweep he drew saddle and blanket to the ground.

The action surprised Belllounds.  He stared.  There seemed something boyish in his lack of comprehension.  Then his temper flamed.

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded, with a strident note in his voice.  “Put that saddle back.”

“Not much.  It’s my saddle.  Cost sixty dollars at Kremmling last year.  Good old hard-earned saddle!...  And you can’t ride it.  Savvy?”

“Yes, I savvy,” replied Belllounds, violently.  “Now you’ll savvy what I say.  I’ll have you discharged.”

“Nope.  Too late,” said Moore, with cool, easy scorn.  “I figured that.  And I quit a minute ago—­when you showed what little regard you had for a horse.”

“You quit!...  Well, it’s damned good riddance.  I wouldn’t have you in the outfit.”

“You couldn’t have kept me, Buster Jack.”

The epithet must have been an insult to Belllounds.  “Don’t you dare call me that,” he burst out, furiously.

Moore pretended surprise.  “Why not?  It’s your range name.  We all get a handle, whether we like it or not.  There’s Montana and Blud and Lemme Two Bits.  They call me Professor.  Why should you kick on yours?”