"YOU ARE NOT!"

Transley's muscles could be seen to go tense beneath his shirt.

"Who will stop me?" he demanded.

"You will be stopped."

"The Mounted Police?" There was contempt in his voice, but the contempt
was not for the Force. It was for the rancher who would appeal to the
police to settle a "friendly" dispute.

"No, I don't think it will be necessary to call in the police," returned
Grant, dropping back to his pleasant, casual manner. "You know Y.D.,
and doubtless you feel quite safe under his wing. But you don't know
Landson. Neither do you know the facts of the case--the right and wrong
of it. Under these handicaps you cannot reach a decision which is fair
to yourself and to your men."

"Further argument is simply waste of time," Transley interrupted. "I
have told you my instructions, and I have told you that I am going to
carry them out. Have you had your supper?"

"Yes, thanks. All right, we won't argue any more. I'm not arguing
now--I'm telling you, Y.D. has cut hay in this valley so long he thinks
he owns it, and the other ranchers began to think he owned it. But
Landson has been making a few inquiries. He finds that these are not
Crown lands, but are privately owned by speculators in New York. He has
contracted with the owners for the hay rights of these lands for five
years, beginning with the present season. He is already cutting farther