“I don’t.”
“Ner where he’s from, ner who his folks are, ner what he did before he come out here and went to flunkyin’?”
“No, pa.”
“Well, by cripes! And ye invite ’im over here to supper!”
“Why, is that so strange, pa? Hundreds of strangers have been guests at Squawtooth.”
“Desert rats—not tramps!”
“Did The Falcon strike you as a no good, Pa Squawtooth?”
Canby puffed his cigar till the end of it glowed like a little moon through the smoke screen of a forest fire.
“Manzanita——”
“Yes, pa?”