"Peace and plenty," muttered Pat, smiling to himself. "The Book sure knows how to say those things."
The gaunt, grizzled ex-sheriff reached in his vest for a cigar. As he bit the end off and felt for a match, he saw a black speck wavering in the distance. He shaded his eyes with his hand.
"'Tain't a machine," he said. "And it ain't a buckboard. Some puncher lookin' for a job, most likely."
He turned and entered the house. Waco, shaven and in clean shirt and overalls, was "punching dough" in the kitchen.
"Did Jim say when he would ride in?" queried Pat.
"About sundown. I fixed 'em up some chuck this morning. Jim figures they're getting too far out to ride in every noon."
"Well, when you get your bread baked we'll take a whirl at those ditches. How are the supplies holding out?"
"We're short on flour. Got enough to last over till Monday. Plenty bacon and beans and lard."
"All right. We'll hook up to-morrow and drive in."
Waco nodded as he tucked a roll of dough into the pan. Pat watched him for a moment. Waco, despite his many shortcomings, could cook, and, strangely enough, liked to putter round the garden.