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cast; this was the spot. Within ten minutes his ax was ringing in the grove of spruce trees close by, and the following night he fried mountain trout under the shelter of his own temporary roof. It was the next summer when Y.D. had another encounter with Wilson. The Upper Forks turned out to be less secluded than he had supposed; it was on the trail of trappers and prospectors working into the mountains. Traders, too, in mysterious commodities, moved mysteriously back and forth, and the log cabin at The Forks became something of a centre of interest. Strange companies forgathered within its rude walls. It was at such a gathering, in which Y.D. and three companions sat about the little square table, that one of the visitors facetiously inquired of the rancher how his herd was progressing. "Not so bad, not so bad," said Y.D., casually. "Some winter losses, of course; snow's too deep this far up. Why?" "Oh, some of your neighbors down the valley say your cows are uncommon prolific." "They do?" said Y.D., laying down his cards. "Who says that?" "Well, Wilson, for instance--" Y.D. sprang to his feet. "I've had one run-in with that ----," he shouted, "an' I let him talk to me like a Sunday School super'ntendent. Here's where I talk to him!" "Well, finish the game first," the others protested. "The night's young." Y.D. was sufficiently drunk to be supersensitive about his honor, and the inference from Wilson's remark was that he was too handy with his branding-iron. "No, boys, no!" he protested. "I'll make that Englishman eat his words or choke on them." "That's right," the company agreed. "The only thing to do. We'll all go down with you." "An' you won't do that, neither," Y.D. answered. "Think I need a body-guard for a little chore like that? Huh!" There was immeasurable contempt in that monosyllable. But a fresh bottle was produced, and Y.D. was persuaded that his honor would suffer no serious damage until the morning. Before that time his company, with many demonstrations of affection and admonitions to "make a good job of it," left for the mountains. Y.D. saddled his horse early, buckled his gun on his hip, hung a lariat from his saddle, and took the trail for the Wilson ranch. During the drinking and gambling of the night he had been able to keep the insult in the background, but, alone under the morning sun, it swept over him and stung him to fury. There was just enough truth in the rep
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