Nabours grinned.
“You’d orto have rid on in.”
“The trail has changed since I was here. Of course, I used to know Del Sol. My father, Calvin McMasters—you’ve heard of him?—was a friend of Colonel Burleson Lockhart forty years back. They died together, and in the same way—you know how. But I was away three years with my regiment, and lately I’ve never got around to ride up the hundred miles from the south.”
“You’re riding back from north now?”
“Yes.”
“Far?”
“From Arkansas.”
“So?”
“Yes. I came down the Washita and crossed the Red at the Station, in from the Nations.”
“How’s that country up in there for cows?” asked Jim Nabours, with the cowman’s invariable interest in new lands. “I never been acrost the Red. Palo Pinto’s about the limit I make for hunting our cows on the north.”