“Oh, Fal—er—Mr. Falcon, eh? Why, he’s been with us since we came to Squawtooth.”
“Seems to me I’ve seen ’im somewheres. Say—I got it! Wasn’t he the fella that come into the ho-tel the day I rode to Opaco to see you, before you’d moved out? Wasn’t he the fella that was pardners with the man you give a dollar to—to eat on?”
“I—I believe he did come to me that day.”
Squawtooth Canby’s craggy eyebrows came down. “Why, you pretty near didn’t hire him, ’cause he said he wasn’t much of a skinner!”
“I believe something like that came up,” conceded Hunt after a pause, during which he had hoped the cowman would continue speaking.
“And you give ’im the job o’ flunky—pot-walloper!”
Again the pause; and finally the contractor had to admit it.
“Well, by cripes!” exclaimed Squawtooth, his bushy brows drawn lower still. Then he raised them suddenly and eyed his guest with a look of shrewdness.
“Hunt,” he accused, “you’re keepin’ somethin’ back. And whether it’s polite er not, I gotta know it now. Come acrost. What’s the fella’s name? Who is he? What’s he doin’ for you?”
“Really, Mr. Canby, I’ve told you all I know about him.”