“A faithful soul,” he observed to his pinto. “Absolutely devoted boy, isn’t he? Quick tempered, a wonder with his gun, and yet backing water all the time because he’s afraid Estella would be left alone in the world if they wiped him out. Some man, Miguel! But none too bright. Give the devil his due, Johnny boy; a good man, only not quite good enough. He couldn’t prevent the ranch going to the dogs, although he’s ready to die with it. No, they wouldn’t bring Pincher just to rub him out. Matt Brady could do that. And they wouldn’t bring Pincher just to handle that mortgage affair. There’s a nigger in the woodpile, and that nigger is——”
His meditations were interrupted by sight of a rolling train of dust in the road ahead. He eyed it sharply and made out the forms of two riders coming toward him.
They met, and drew rein with casual nods of greeting, searching looks, and frank curiosity. Robinson beheld two rangy punchers who rode with Winchesters booted. Their mounts bore the long sear of the Running Dog. One of them was a ratty individual with protruding teeth, the other was a large man, red-faced, of aggressive aspect.
“Must be a heap o’ war in this country,” opined Robinson with a friendly grin as he rolled a smoke. “More rifles’n I ever seen before at one stretch!”
“You must ha’ come from quiet parts, then,” said the big man. “That cayuse bears a brand strange hereabouts.”
“That’s true. Sure’s my name’s Jack Robinson, friend, that’s true! Still the old SF has been supportin’ me for two years or so—down in the south country.”
“I’m Matt Brady, foreman; this here’s ’Lias Knute,” introduced Brady. “If you’ve come out lookin’ for a job at the Runnin’ Dawg, we’d be right glad to have you turn in, Robinson. Need a few extry hands right now.”
Robinson blew a cloud of smoke and shook his head regretfully.
“Later, mebbe. Me, I got business over to Laredo.”
“Laredo?” The foreman stared. “This ain’t the Laredo road, ye numskull!”