“The inspector is all right—he's here now an' is going to spend the night with us so as to be on hand the first thing to-morrow,” replied Hopalong, grinning at the hard-working pair on the platform. “Why, I reckon I'll take you, Johnny, Lanky, Billy, Pete, an' Skinny, an' we'll have two hoss-wranglers an' a cook, of course. We'll drive up the right-hand trail through West Valley this time. It's longer, but there'll be more water that way at this time of the year. Besides, I don't want no more foot-sore cattle to nurse along. Even the West Valley trail will be dry enough before we strike Bennett's Creek.”
“Yes; we'll have to drive 'em purty hard till we reach the creek,” replied Red, thoughtfully. “Say; we're going to have three thousand of the finest three-year-old steers ever sent north out of these parts. An' we ought to do it in a month an' deliver 'em fat an' frisky. We can feed 'em good for the last week.”
“I just sent some of the boys out to drive in the cayuses,” Hopalong remarked, “an' when they get here you fellers match for choice an' pick yore remuda. No use taking too few. About eight apiece'll do us nice. I shore like a good cavvieyeh.”
“Hullo, Hoppy!” came from the platform as Billy grinned his welcome through the dust on his face. “Want a job?”
“Hullo yoreself,” growled Pete. “Stick yore iron on that fourth steer before he gets out, an' talk less with yore mouth.”
“Pete's still rabid,” called Billy, performing the duty Pete suggested.
“That may be the polite name for it,” snorted one of the iron heaters, testing an iron, “but that ain't what I'd say. Might as well cover the subject thoroughly while yo're on it.”
“Yes, verily,” endorsed his companion.
“Here comes the last of 'em,” smiled Pete, watching several cattle being driven towards the chute. “We'll have to brand 'em on the move, Billy; there ain't enough to fill the chute.”
“All right; hot iron, you!”