“I told him what he was an' threw him outen th' street,” replied Hopalong. “In about two weeks we'll have a new marshal an' he'll shore be a dandy.”
“Yes? Why don't yu take th' job yoreself? We're with yu.”
“Better man comin'. Ever hear of Buck Peters or Red Connors of th' Bar-20, Texas?”
“Buck Peters? Seems to me I have. Did he punch fer th' Tin-Cup up in Montana, 'bout twenty years back?”
“Shore! Him and Frenchy McAllister punched all over that country an' they used to paint Cheyenne, too,” replied Hopalong, eagerly.
“I knows him, then. I used to know Frenchy, too. Are they comin' up here?”
“Yes,” responded Hopalong, struggling with another can while waiting for the fire to catch up. “Better have some grub with me—don't like to eat alone,” invited the cowboy, the reaction of his late rage swinging him to the other extreme.
When their tobacco had got well started at the close of the meal and content had taken possession of them Hopalong laughed quietly and finally spoke:
“Did yu ever know Aristotle Smith when yu was up in Montana?”
“Did I! Well, me an' Aristotle prospected all through that country till he got so locoed I had to watch him fer fear he'd blow us both up. He greased th' fryin' pan with dynamite one night, an' we shore had to eat jerked meat an' canned stuff all th' rest of that trip. What made yu ask? Is he comin' up too?”