“Allee lightee,” he said, “Then you keep look see out on Mistlee Westclott. Bimeby, he try do Mistlee Glad dirt, I makee my bull meat off him.”
He walked off, his hands in his sleeves, and Sandy Larch looked after him thoughtfully.
“Now I wonder what that Chink thinks he knows,” he mused. “Chang ain’t no fool. He’s hip to somethin’. ’T ain’t good discipline to ask questions off’n a Chink; but I sure wish I could see into his shiny skull.”
He picked up the saddle and took it into the shack, returning, after a moment, to stand in the door, humming—
He did not realize his variation on the ordinary version of his song. He had brought his warbling to a sudden finish, and stood peering out at a horseman who was riding along the edge of the farthest corral.
After a second he stepped back into the shanty, and watched through the crack of the half-open door.
“Sure’s shootin’,” he muttered, “The Chink was right. It is Westcott.”
His ear caught a low whistle that was presently answered from quarters. Sandy remembered that he, himself, was supposed to be at the upper range. He would have been on his way there but for the defect in his cincha-strap. He stopped to consider, wondering whether he had been singing loud enough for Broome to hear him.
“That’s what comes o’ tryin’ to be a prima donna,” he muttered. “But any way I bin still long enough to make him think I’m gone, if he did hear.”