"Wait!" called Santa quickly. She looked at her husband with
surprise in her steady gray eyes.
"Why, what do you mean, Webb?" she asked, with a small wrinkle
gathering between her brows. "I never deal with Zimmerman and
Nesbit. Barber has handled every head of stock from this ranch in
that market for five years. I'm not going to take the business out
of his hands." She faced Bud Turner. "Deliver those cattle to
Barber," she concluded positively.
Bud gazed impartially at the water-jar hanging on the gallery,
stood on his other leg, and chewed a mesquite-leaf.
"I want this bunch of beeves to go to Zimmerman and Nesbit,"
said Webb, with a frosty light in his blue eyes.
"Nonsense," said Santa impatiently. "You'd better start on, Bud,
so as to noon at the Little Elm water-hole. Tel
