“I’m goin’ to be workin’ with the horses all the afternoon,” Broome answered. “We’re goin’ to be bustin’ ’em out, an’ that’s one o’ my jobs.”
He added the last with a good deal of pride, and Westcott nodded.
“I’ll see you, then,” he said, moving off.
“Do you know Broome?” Mr. Anderson asked, when Westcott overtook the others.
“Pretty well”; was the reply. “I knew him up north. He was cow-punch for a friend of mine, and I used to be up there a good deal. He’s a good hand with horses.”
“So he claims,” Anderson said. “He blew in the other day, bragging that he’s a first-class bronco-buster. We’re pretty short, so Sandy took him on. I don’t think much of his looks.”
“Oh, he’s all right.” Westcott spoke carelessly. “A good many singed cats look worse.”
Sandy Larch had gone up to the cook’s quarters on an errand, and passing the casa found Gard awake.
“Hullo, Mr. Larch,” the latter called, espying him.
“Mister Larch?” Sandy made a pretense of looking for the person addressed. “Where ’d you keep ’im?” he asked, with elaborate solicitude.