"Say, mister, I'm just comin' to. A guy told me in Antelope that they was a John Corliss—only he said Jack—what was needin' a cook. Just thunk of it, seein' as I was thinkin' of Billy most ever since I met you. Are you the one?"
"Guess I am," said Corliss, smiling. "It's up to you."
"Say, mister, that listens like home more'n anything I heard since I was a kid. I can sure cook, but I ain't no rider."
"How long would it take you to foot it to the Concho?"
"Oh, travelin' easy, say 'bout eight hours."
"Don't see that you need a horse, then, even if there was one handy."
"Nope. I don't need no horse. All I need is a job."
"All right. You'd have to travel thirty miles either way—to get out of here. I won't be there, but you can tell my foreman, Bud Shoop, that I sent you in."
"And I'll jest be tellin' him that 'bout twelve, to-morrow. I sure wisht Billy was here. He'd sure be glad to know his ole pal was cookin' for his brother. Me for the shavin's. And say, thanks, pardner. Reckon they ain't all jokers in Arizona."
"No. There are a few that can't make or take one," said Corliss. "Hope you'll make the ranch all right."