er for
your brother's incompetence."

Turkey, scowling said nothing for a moment.

"I remember the day you came to the ranch after father died," he said at
last irrelevantly.

"Um," Mr. Braden returned. "I felt very deeply for you in your
bereavement. You were quite a small boy then. I--er--patted you on the
head."

"I didn't know you then," said Turkey, "but do you know what I thought?"

"No," smiled Mr. Braden. "I suppose you stood somewhat in awe of me, my
boy."

"I thought you were a fat, old crook," Turkey announced.

"Hey!" Mr. Braden ejaculated.

"Of course, I know you better now," Turkey added.

"Yes, yes, just so," said Mr. Braden with comprehension. "Childish
impressions. Most amusing. Ha-ha! Huh!"

Turkey looked him in the eye.

"And now you're fatter and older," he said deliberately, "and I believe
you're a damned sight crookeder than I thought you were then. You
pork-faced old mortgage shark, I'll like to burn your ears off with a
gun!"

Mr. Braden gasped. Turkey's voice was as venomous as his words. His
hard, young mouth twisted bitterly as he spoke. "You're damned anxious
to sell the ranch, aren't you?" he went on. "Angus had the right steer
about you. He thought you were trying to put something over. I was a
kid, and he wasn't much more, but we both had you sized for a crook.
Well, we're not kids now. Since I left the ranch I've been hearing about
you. I'll tell you what I've heard."

Mr. Braden expressed no undue anxiety to hear. "I don't know what you
have heard and I don't care. If you can't talk decently, get out of
here."

"In a minute," said Turkey, "when I've told you what I think of you."

His spoken opinion caused Mr. Braden to change color from time to time,
but the prevailing hue was red.

"Get out of my office!" he roared, rearing his impressive bulk against
Turkey's slimness. "Get out or I'll throw you out!"

"Shucks!" said Turkey with contempt, and dug a hard, young thumb into
Mr. Braden's forward over-hang. "That's the only thing you can throw
out, you old tub of lard. You'll drop dead some day with a rotten heart.
And now I'm telling you something: I guess I can't stop you from selling
the ranch, but if you do, I'll get you somehow, if you live long
enough."

Turkey, as he went down the street from this interview, was in a
poisonous temper. His was the impotent rage of youth, which failing
expression in physical violence, finds itself at a complete loss. Though
h