That he knew too well.

Old J.G.Whitmore and Chip would have to sell out.

And that was like death; indeed, it IS death of a sort, when one of the old outfits is wiped out of existence.
It had happened before--happened too often to make pleasant memories for Andy Green, who could name outfit after outfit that had been forced out of business by the settling of the range land; who could name dozens of cattle brands once seen upon the range, and never glimpsed now from spring roundup until fall.
Must the Flying U brand disappear also?
The good old Flying U, for whose existence the Old Man had fought and schemed since first was raised the cry that the old range was passing?
The Flying U that had become a part of his life?
Andy let his cigarette grow cold; he roused only to swear at the porter who entered with dust cloth and a deprecating grin.
After that, Andy thought of Florence Grace Hallman--and his eyes were not particularly sentimental.

There was a hard line about his mouth also; though Florence Grace Hallman was but a pawn in the game, after all, and not personally guilty of half the deliberate crimes Andy laid upon her dimpled shoulders.

With her it was pure, cold-blooded business, this luring of the land-hungry to a land whose fertility was at best problematical; who would, for a price, turn loose the victims of her greed to devastate what little grazing ground was left.
The train neared Havre.