"It appears like I'd maybe made a bad selection then. I'm sorry about that," Harris deprecated in a negligent tone that belied his words. "It's hard to tell just how it will pan out."
"Not so very hard—if you can read," the dark man contradicted.
The newcomer's gaze returned from down the valley and settled on Morrow's face.
"Do you run a brand of your own—so's you'd stand to lose a dollar if every foot of range was fenced?" he inquired.
"What are you trying to get at now?" Morrow demanded.
"Nothing much—now; I've already got," Harris said. "A man's interest lays on the side where his finances are most concerned."
"What do you mean by that?" Morrow insisted.
"You're good at predicting—maybe you're an expert at guessing too," Harris returned. And suddenly Evans laughed as if something had just occurred to him.
Morrow glanced at him without turning his head, then fell silent, his expression unchanged.
A chunky youngster stood in the door and bent an approving gaze on the big pinto as he swung out across the pasture lot. The boy's face was small and quizzical, a shaggy mop of tawny hair hanging so low upon his forehead that his mild blue eyes peered forth from under the fringe of it and gave him the air of a surprised terrier, which effect had gained him the title of Bangs.