"What's to be done about the steer?" asked Songbird. "It seems a pity to leave him here."
"Vot is der madder mit cutting him ub for meats?" put in Hans. "Ve can haf some nice steak ven ve go into camp next dime, hey?"
"That's a scheme," said Fred.
At that moment, Wags, who had kept in the background so long as the steer was raging around, set up a sharp barking.
"What's wrong now?" asked Tom, turning to the dog.
"Somebody may be coming," suggested Dick.
"I'll show you fellers wot's wrong!" cried a rough voice, and through the brushwood close by there crashed a broncho, on top of which rode a rough-looking cowboy, wearing a red shirt and a big slouch hat. "Who went and shot that steer?"
"I did," answered Dick. "Was he yours?"
"He was, and you had no right to touch him," growled the cowboy.
"Didn't I, though?" said Dick. "Are you aware that he came close to hurting us? He charged full tilt at my brother's horse."
"Stuff and fairy tales, boy. That steer was all right. He broke away from the drove, but he wouldn't hurt a flea."
"We know better," put in Tom.
