“That’s another mystery. I was taking it easy down the trail when a rifle cracked and my horse just folded up and pitched me off. The old cayuse never knew what hit him. Then the lead started pouring my way and I scuttled into that blind canyon.”
“About that time I came along and voted myself a hand,” put in Slim.
“That’s about right. You cut in just in time to save my hide. I’m mighty grateful for what you did and doggone sorry that I held you up a few minutes ago. After what had happened I wasn’t going to take any chances.”
“Oh, I don’t blame you for that a whole lot.”
“My name’s ‘Chuck’ Meade,” the newcomer volunteered. “I’m off the Circle Four. It’s a little better than a hundred miles south of here on the Sweetwater.”
“I’m Slim Evans. Home brand is the Flying Arrow over near Sunfield.”
They coolly looked each other over and an almost instant liking was struck up between them.
Slim was tall, as his name implied. A little better than five feet eleven inches, he packed 163 pounds on a frame that was built of sinewy muscle. His hands were long and slender and there was the grace of a mountain lion in his walk. His blue eyes were frank and inquiring, but at times a deadly light flickered in them, a light that warned an opponent that here indeed was a cow hand who could take care of himself in almost any emergency.
Chuck tipped the beams at 195 pounds and stood only five feet seven with his boots on. His shoulders were massive and his short arms had the power of a grizzly bear. He was champion of all wrestlers in the Sweetwater valley and at catch-as-catch-can scrapping was without a peer. A mop of curly hair was inclined to scatter in almost every direction and his eyebrows were heavy. But under the bushy brows gleamed brown eyes that were warm and friendly and he had a likeable smile.
Chuck looked down at the tattered socks on Slim’s feet.