"Purty girl," he said in a pleasant vein of musing.
"Which one?"
"Vesta. I like 'em with a little more of a figger, a little thicker in some places and wider in others, but she's trim and she's tasty, and her heart's pure gold."
"You're right it is, Taterleg," Lambert agreed, keeping his eyes straight ahead as they rode on.
"You're aimin' to come back in the spring and go pardners with her on the sheep deal, ain't you, Duke?"
"I don't expect I'll ever come back, Taterleg."
"Well," said Taterleg abstractedly, "I don't know."
They rode past the station, the bullet-scarred rain barrel behind which Tom Hargus took shelter in the great battle still standing in its place, and past the saloon, the hitching-rack empty before it, for this was the round-up season—nobody was in town.
"There's that slab-sided, spider-legged Alta Wood standin' out on the porch," said Taterleg disgustedly, falling behind Lambert, reining around on the other side to put him between the lady and himself.
"You'd better stop and bid her good-bye," Lambert suggested.