In a more open valley they came in sight of the great T. L. herd, scattered over two miles of country, grazing or lying at rest. A dozen riders lolled, leg over saddle horn, themselves a-doze, waiting for the foreman’s return.
“Ain’t it purty?” said Nabours, the real cowman’s love of cows in his speech. And it was a noble sight, this wild picture in a wild land. Any way one looked there was no edge to the world.
But Jameson was more businesslike.
“Well, now,” said he, “it is a good bunch. How many did you say you had?”
“Thirty-eight hunderd and sixty-five, we made our last tally,” answered the T. L. foreman, the glint again in his eye. “Why?”
“Well, now, I never want to make bother for a good cowman,” Jameson answered. “It’s true you’re off your course, but maybe that’s natural. I’ll just take your own count and let you go. You can pay me the fee and I’ll not bother you any more at all.”
“Won’t even ride in amongst the herd to look at the brands, nor nothing?”
“Why, no! What’s the use? I can trust men like you. Just pay me the fee and let her rip.”
“And how much is the fee, Mister Inspector?”
“Nothing at all, you might say—two bits a head. Taking your own count—let’s see; call it thirty-six hundred head for easy figuring. Divide her by four. Nine’s a nine and naught’s a naught—she comes to nine hundred dollars. Ought to be a cold thousand; but as I said, that’s nothing amongst men like us. Give me that and I’ll let you go and never take another look. I’ll trust a man like you.”