The old man peered over the tops of his spectacles. “Yuh be, if yuh want to catch the up-mail,” he nodded. “Where’s it to?”
He took the letter from Stratton’s extended hand and studied it with frank interest.
“Jim Hardenberg!” he commented. “Wal! Wal! Friend of yores, eh?”
“Oh, I don’t know as you’d hardly call him that,” 129 evaded Stratton. “Haven’t seen him in over two years, I reckon.”
Pop waited expectantly, but no further information was forthcoming. He eyed the letter curiously, manœuvering as if by accident to hold it up against the light. He even tried, by obvious methods, to get rid of the two punchers, but they persisted in hanging around until at length the near approach of the train-hour forced the old man to drop the letter into the mail-bag with the others and snap the lock. On the plea of seeing whether their package had come, both Stratton and Jessup escorted him over to the station platform and did not quit his side until the train had departed, carrying the mail-sack with it.
There were a few odds and ends of mail for the Shoe-Bar, but no parcel. When this became certain, Bud got his horse and the two mounted in front of the store.
“By gee!” exclaimed Pop suddenly as they were on the point of riding off. “I clean forgot to tell yuh. They got blackleg over to the T-T’s.”
Both men turned abruptly in their saddles and stared at him in dismay. To the bred-in-the-bone rancher the mention of blackleg, that deadly contagious and most fatal of cattle diseases, is almost as startling as bubonic plague would be to the average human. 130
“Hell!” ejaculated Bud forcefully. “Yuh sure about that, Pop?”
“Sartain sure,” nodded the old man. “One of their men, Bronc Tippets, was over here last night an’ told me. Said their yearlings is dyin’ off like flies.”