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Garrett spied a solitary horseman jogging ahead in the same direction.

"I wonder who that is," he said.

He soon recognized the bay horse as Brazel's and the stalwart young figure sitting in the saddle with the nonchalant grace of a veteran range rider as Brazel himself. As his team, moving at a smart clip, cut down the intervening distance, Garrett was soon able to note the details of the horseman's attire—gray sombrero set squarely on the head, tan overalls, gray coat beneath which projected the yellow leather holster of a six-shooter, a red-and-black knitted scarf around the throat against a tang of cold in the February morning. Hard lines appeared about Garrett's eyes, and his lips tightened as he clucked up his horses. He seemed grimly pleased at the prospect of this accidental meeting.

"I'll give that young fellow a piece of my mind," he said.

Brazel looked surprised but in no wise disconcerted as Garrett drew alongside and pulled his team to a walk.

"I am goin' to give you mighty little more time to get off my land," said Garrett.

"I'll take all the time I want," Brazel replied with crisp deliberation. "You ain't goin' to get that land back till my lease is up. I've told you that before."

"I'll show you. If the law don't put you off, I will."

"You can't bluff me and no use trying."

"Moreover, you've got no right running goats on my land."

"I'll run any kind of stock on it I please."

"And you can't sublet it under the lease."

"I've already sublet it."

So they snarled and snapped at each other. Their angry argument was two miles long with the horses at a