So they went on to the house,
where the Old Man sat on the porch looking madder than when
they had left him three weeks before.
"Why don't yuh run them nesters outa the country?" he
demanded peevishly when they were close enough for speech.
"Here they come and accuse me to my face of trying to defraud
the gov'ment. Doggone you boys, what you think you're up to,
anyway? What's three or four thousand acres when they're
swarming in here like flies to a butcherin'? They can't make
a living--serve 'em right. What you doggone rowdies want
now?"
Not a cordial welcome, that--if they went no deeper than his
words. But there was the old twinkle back of the
querulousness in the Old Man's eyes, and the old pucker of
the lips behind his grizzled whiskers. "You've got that
doggone Kid broke to foller yuh so we can't keep him on the
ranch no more," he added fretfully. "Tried to run away twice,
on Silver. Chip had to go round him up. Found him last time
pretty near over to Antelope coulee, hittin' the high places
for town. Might as well take yuh back, I guess, and save time
running after the Kid."
"We've got to hold down our claims," Weary minded him
regretfully. In three weeks, he could see a difference the
Old Man, and the change hurt him.
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