“Hello,” responded Hardy. “Who is this, anyway?”
“Jim Swope,” replied the voice, with dignified directness. “What’re you doing in these parts?”
“Came down to buy a postage stamp,” replied Hardy, following a habit he had of telling the truth in details.
“Huh!” grunted Swope. “It’s a wonder you wouldn’t go to Bender for it––that Jew over there might make you a rate!”
“Nope,” responded Hardy, ignoring the too-evident desire of the Moroni storekeeper to draw him into an argument. “He couldn’t do it––they say the Government loses money every time it sells one. Nice town you’ve got down here,” he remarked, by way of 153 a parting compliment; but Swope was not satisfied to let him escape so easily.
“Hold on, there!” he exclaimed, rousing up from his place. “What’s your bloody hurry? Come on back here and shake hands with Mr. Thomas––Mr. Thomas is my boss herder up in Apache County. Thinking of bringing him down here next Fall,” he added laconically, and by the subtle change in his voice Hardy realized intuitively that that move had been the subject of their interrupted argument. More than that, he felt vaguely that he himself was somehow involved in the discussion, the more so as Mr. Thomas balked absolutely at shaking hands with him.
“I hope Mr. Thomas will find it convenient to stop at the ranch,” he murmured pleasantly, “but don’t let me interfere with your business.”
“Well, I guess that’s all to-night, Shep,” remarked Swope, taking charge of the situation. “I jest wanted you to meet Hardy while you was together. This is the Mr. Hardy, of the Dos S outfit, you understand,” he continued, “and a white cowman! If you have to go across his range, go quick––and tell your men the same. I want them dam’ tail-twisters up in that Four Peaks country to know that it pays to be decent to a sheepman, and I’m goin’ to show some of ’em, 154 too, before I git through! But any time my sheep happen to git on your range, Mr. Hardy,” he added reassuringly, “you jest order ’em off, and Mr. Thomas here will see to it that they go!”
He turned upon his boss herder with a menacing gesture, as if charging him with silence, and Thomas, whose sole contribution to the conversation had been a grunt at the end, swung about and ambled sullenly off up the street.
“Feelin’ kinder bad to-night,” explained Swope, as his mayordomo butted into the swinging doors of a saloon and disappeared, “but you remember what I said about them sheep. How do things look up your way?” he inquired. “Feed pretty good?”