Son, you don’t win
a range war by sittin’ on . . .
BOTH SIDES OF THE FENCE
Right now, Fowler was mighty useful, with his deeply ingrained hatred for sodbusters. Urquhart had often speculated on the reason behind Fowler’s abiding hatred, and he was not alone. No one ever asked Fowler for his reasons. He wasn’t the sort of man to submit to any verbal probing into his past.
For the rest, Fowler was a rarity — a rancher with enough grass who wanted nothing from any man, but fanatically determined to hold what was his by law and by tradition.
Fowler did not immediately reply to Urquhart’s implied question, beyond a slow nod of his grizzled head.
“You’ll go talk to ’em, Shad?” Wellman suggested.
“Talk!” Fowler’s gnarled dirt-encrusted hand with its big blotches of freckles, fisted. “The only talk land-hungry plow jockeys unnerstand is talk comin’ outta a gun.”