"They dassent to start runnin' _us_ off--dast they?" queried Young Pete.
"Mostly talk," reiterated Annersley; but Pete saw that his pop was
troubled.
"They can't bluff us, eh, pop?"
"I reckon not, son. How many cartridges you got?"
Young Pete thrilled to the question. "Got ten out of the last box.
You got any?"
"Some. Reckon we'll go to town to-morrow."
"To git some cartridges?"
"Mebby."
This was Young Pete's first real intimation that there might be trouble
that would occasion the use of cartridges. The idea did not displease
him. They drove to town, bought some provisions and ammunition, and
incidentally the old man visited the sheriff and retailed the
conversation that Pete had overheard.
"Bluff!" said the sheriff, whose office depended upon the vote of the
cattlemen. "Just bluff, Annersley. You hang on to what you got and
they won't be no trouble. I know just how far those boys will go."
"Well, I don't," said Annersley. "So I was jest puttin' what you call
bluff on record, case anything happened."
The sheriff, secretly in league with the cattlemen to crowd Annersley
off the range, took occasion to suggest to the T-Bar-T foreman that the
old man was getting cold feet--which was a mistake, for Annersley had
simply wished to keep within the law and avoid trouble if possible.
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