The old man took a grip on his rising wrath. "No--we're not kicking, any
more than you've got a right to kick when we settle accounts with you."

"As we're liable to do right shortly, now we've got you," said Dixon,
vindictively.

"All right--go ahead with the indictment," Weaver acquiesced quietly,
ignoring the boy.

"Keep still, Tom," Sanderson ordered, and went on with his grievance.
"You try to run this valley as if you were God Almighty. By your way of
it, a man has to come with hat in hand to ask you if he may take up land
here. The United States says we may homestead, but Buck Weaver says we
shan't. Uncle Sam says we may lease land to run sheep. Buck Weaver has
another notion of it. We're to take orders from him. If we don't he
clubs our sheep and drives off our cattle."

"Cattle were here first," retorted Weaver. "The range is overstocked,
and they've got a prior right. Nesters in the hills here are making
money by rustling Twin Star calves. That's another thing."

"Some of them. You'll not find any rustled calves with the Seven Mile
brand on them. And we don't recognize any prior right. We came here
legally. We intend to stay. Every time your riders club a bunch of our
sheep, we'll even up on Twin Star cattle. You take my daughter captive;
I hold you prisoner."

"You'll be in luck if you get away from here with a whole skin," broke
out Phil. "You came here to please yourself, but you'll stay to please
us."