"I never saw ’im in these parts before," returned Hillis.
"Nor I." The driver spat over the flank of the right wheeler. "Gid’ep there, Suke, ye slowmy, you! Hike it, old Blue! Git out of this!" And, having thus jogged the energy of the leaders, Andy gave his attention again to Hillis. "Hain’t ever set eyes on that brown chap before. I guessed back there he was bound fer Embar. Looks like a puncher."
"I wish"–the assistant manager of the Embar spoke forcefully–"that he and seven or eight more were bound for the Embar."
"Short of hands, eh?" questioned Andy, whirling his "black snake" so skilfully that the lash missed the heads of the wheelers, and touched the flank of the nigh leader.
"Short of hands?" Steele broke in. "Who isn’t short of hands from Butte to Omaha–especially in Wyoming? I’ve been out two weeks advertising and hunting men, and here I am back again with two only."
Ross turned half around in his high seat, and grasped the low back. "Is labor as scarce as that in Miners’ Camp?" he burst out in a brusque, astonished tone which betrayed a personal interest.
"As scarce as diamonds," returned Steele, adding with a laugh, "and almost as expensive."
Andy pushed back his hat, and surveyed his young companion with curiosity. There was a little stir in the coach also.
"It must be"–Amos Steele spoke as if the matter had been debated before–"that you are related to Ross Grant of New York."
"Yes," returned Ross, "I am his son."