“Friend of yourn just hit the back trail,” he remarked to Hopalong. “He was primed some for trouble, too,” he added.
“Yaas?” Drawled Hopalong with little interest.
The proprietor restacked the few glasses and wiped off the bar. “Them's his pardners,” he said, indicating the pair on the table.
Hopalong turned his head and gravely scrutinized them. Porous was bemoaning the death of Slim Travennes and Hopalong frowned.
“Don't reckon he's no relation of mine,” he grunted.
“Well, he ain't yore sister,” replied Tom Lee, grinning.
“What's his brand?” Asked the puncher.
“I reckon he's a maverick, 'though yu put yore brand on him up to Santa Fe a couple of years back. Since he's throwed back on yore range I reckon he's yourn if yu wants him.”
“I reckon Tex is some sore,” remarked Hopalong, rolling a cigarette.
“I reckon he is,” replied the proprietor, tossing Buck's quarter in the cash box. “But, say, you should oughter see his rig.”