“Evening,” said Hibben, stiffly uncertain of his welcome.
“Evening,” replied Mack, with cold civility, while old Joel Fenno sat still and scowled mute query.
“Have you eaten?” went on Royce, in the time-honored local phrase of hospitality.
“Yep,” said Chris; adding: “Not cawed mutton, neither.”
He caught himself up, belatedly recalling that he was at peace with these sheepmen; and he hurried on to ask:
“Will you boys set a price on that collie of yours? Nope, I’m not joshing. I don’t know how such critters run in price. But I’ve got a couple of hundred dollars in my jeans, here, that I’ll swap for him.”
“Treve’s not for sale,” was Royce Mack’s curt retort. “We told you that, the day he kept your steers out of your hair. He—”
“Hold on!” purred Joel, smitten with one of his rare and beautiful ideas. “Hold on, Friend Hibben. Trevy ain’t for sale. Just like my partner says. Not that he’s wuth any man’s money—not even a cattleman’s. But we’ve got kind of used to his wuthless ways and we aim to keep him. But if you’re honin’ for a collie, I c’n tell you where to get one. Always s’posin’ you’re willin’ to pay fair for a high-grade article. I c’n give you the address of the feller who used to own Treve.”
“That’s good enough for me,” returned Chris. “The feller that bred this dog of yours sure knew how to breed the best. I’ll hand him that much. And it’s the best I want. Who is he and where does he hang out?”
“Wait,” said Fenno, with amazing politeness, as he heaved his rheumatic frame up from his chair and pottered away into the house. “I’ve got his address in here. I’ll write it down for you.”