“I don’t understand. Does Mr. Cook want you to join him in business?”
“Hardly,” the stranger answered. “But nacherly, ye don’t know me. They call me ‘colonel’ here in town. I used to be ‘Sink Hole’ Weston—‘Sink’ Weston fur short.”
Roy dropped into a chair in open perplexity. The agent lit his pipe again.
“It’s only a job headin’ a gang o’ prospectors,” he volunteered immediately. “Don’t stand to reason I keer much fur it, but—well, mebbe I am worth more at that than selling somepin’ I don’t own.”
“You are an old timer out here, then?” suggested Roy, as he began to understand.
“Went ‘to Texas’ in ’ninety from Louisiany,” answered ‘Colonel’ Weston. “Rustled cattle till ’ninety-five. Guided railroad gangs in the mountains round hyar till nineteen hundred; United States Deputy Marshal fur a spell, and then I was sheriff o’ this county a term. Five years ago, I civilized—put on this white shirt,” he added, with a grin, “an’ been bluffin’ ever since at business.”
“Were you what they call a plainsman?” asked Roy.
“I see what you mean,” exclaimed the man. “Well, they never did feel comfortable. These togs air a part o’ ‘Colonel’ A. B. Weston. ‘Sink’ Weston’s outfit is over home—I git into it sometimes when I want to feel free and easy like.”
“Are you familiar with the Indians?” asked Roy, already much interested in his new found friend.
“Familiar?” repeated the agent. “If you mean hev I seen much uv ’em, I kin say I’ve seen enough uv ’em so’s I kin cut out their society without cryin’.”