"Got no pannikin or plate, I suppose, Broncho?" asked the rolling-stone.
"I shorely don't reckon I needs them heretofore. I makes this trip some abrupt, as you-alls knows, an' I overlooks the same complete. Mebbe though I can rustle some tin-ware from the 'old woman.'"[1]
At these words a heavily-built, red-shirted man who had been sitting silently in the next bunk, looked up with a keen glance at the cowboy and asked:
"Say, stranger, was you on the Cross-bar outfit last fall? I seems to recall them feachers o' yours some."
"So?" returned Broncho politely.
"I was a-ditching on Hunker Creek," went on the red-shirted man. "You hits my camp a-trailing some horses which you allows some doggoned greasers has gone an' lifted. My name's Ben Sluice—Bedrock Ben they calls me down Arizona way."
"My mem'ry's plumb onreliable an' scattered this maunin'," replied the cowpuncher; "but I shorely recalls them greasers, now you speaks."
"And I'm sliding out chips you catches 'em all right?"
"Which we shorely does, mebbe two days later, an' swings 'em up to two cottonwoods without any ondue delays," said the cattle-ranger indifferently.
Then, turning to the tattooed Britisher, who had just managed to procure him a plate, pannikin, and cutlery, he inquired with a sly twinkle in his eye: