"Guess you're joshin' me." And the tramp's face expressed disappointment. "I eat my own cookin' when I can't get any better," he added, cheerfully.
"Well, it ain't no joke—cookin' for that hotel," stated the puncher, gazing at the end of his cigar and shaking his head. "Is it, boys?"
"Sure ain't," they chorused.
"A man's got to shoot the good chuck to hold the trade," he continued.
"Hotel?" queried Sundown. "In this here town?"
"Naw!" exclaimed the puncher. "It's one o' them swell joints out in the desert. Kind o' what folks East calls a waterin'-place. Eh, boys?"
"That's her!" volleyed the group.
"Kind o' select-like," continued the puncher.
"Sure is!" they chorused.
"Do you know what the job pays?" asked Sundown.