The man on the horse pulled down the brim of his ragged old hat, drew the back of a dirty hand across his lips and answered:
“Gringo Pete Billings is the handle I tote, amigo. Don’t go fer ter think I’m as tough as what I look, kase I ain’t.”
“You couldn’t be, gringo,” spoke up Jerry, with a cackle.
Gringo Pete pulled himself together and stared at the big-headed, short-bodied, long-armed form at Lige Benner’s side.
“Say, I’m convarsin’ with Lige Benner. Aire you him? Which of ye is him, huh?”
“I’m Lige Benner,” said the rancher.
“Then kindly request Leetle Sawed-off ter hold his yaup. I want him ter cork, I do. I don’t jest savvy what he says, but someways his tork grinds on me er heap.”
“Never mind what you like, or don’t like,” returned Lige Benner sharply. “Tell us what you want here?”
“I want er job, that’s what.”
“Where are you from?”