The Tailholt Mountain man made no shallow pretense that he did not understand.  “Not by a damn sight,” he returned roughly.  “I ain’t raisin’ calves for Bill Baldwin, an’ I happen to know what I’m talkin’ about this trip.  That’s a Four-Bar-M calf, an’ I branded him myself over in Horse Wash before he left the cow.  Some of your punchers are too damned handy with their runnin’ irons, Mr. Wild Horse Phil.”

For a moment Phil looked at the man, while Jim Reid moved his horse nearer, and the cowboys waited, breathlessly.  Then, without taking his eyes from the Tailholt Mountain man’s face, Phil called sharply: 

“Patches, come here!”

There was a sudden movement among the riders, and a subdued murmur, as Patches rode forward.

“Is that calf you told me about in the corral, Patches?” asked Phil, when the man was beside him.

“Yes, sir; that’s him over there by that brindle cow.”  Patches indicated the animal in question.

“And you put our iron on him?” asked Phil, still watching Nick.

“I did,” returned Patches, coolly.

“Tell us about it,” directed the Dean’s foreman.

And Patches obeyed, briefly.  “It was that day you sent me to fix the fence on the southwest corner of the big pasture.  I saw a bunch of cattle a little way outside the fence, and went to look them over.  This calf was following a Cross-Triangle cow.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.  I watched them for half an hour.”

“What was in the bunch?”

“Four steers, a Pot-Hook-S bull, five cows and this calf.  There were three Five-Bar cows, one Diamond-and-a-Half and one Cross-Triangle.  The calf went to the Cross-Triangle cow every time.  And, besides, he is marked just like his mother.  I saw her again this afternoon while we were working the cattle.”

Phil nodded.  “I know her.”

Jim Reid was watching Patches keenly, with a quiet look now and then at
Nick.

The cowboys were murmuring among themselves.

“Pretty good work for a tenderfoot!”

“Tenderfoot, hell!”

“They’ve got Nick this trip.”

“Got nothin’!  Can’t you see it’s a frame-up?”

Phil spoke to Nick.  “Well, are satisfied?  Will you vent your brand?”

The big man’s face was distorted with passion.  “Vent nothin’,” he roared.  “On the word of a damned sneakin’ tenderfoot!  I—­”

He stopped, as Patches, before Phil could check the movement, pushed close to his side.

In the sudden stillness the new man’s cool, deliberate voice sounded clearly.  “I am positive that you made a mistake when you put your iron on that calf, Mr. Cambert.  And,” he added slowly, as though with the kindest possible intention, “I am sure that you can safely take my word for it without further question.”

For a moment Nick glared at Patches, speechless.  Then, to the amazement of every cowboy in the corral, the big man mumbled a surly something, and took down his riata to rope the calf and disclaim his ownership of the animal.