“Thanks,” he cried readily. “I’ve got to go that way back, so I’ll chase around there.” He half turned away, as though about to depart, but turned again immediately. “It’s that pine up on the side of the valley, isn’t it?” he questioned doubtfully.
“There’s only one pine in this valley—yes.”
O’Brien’s hand was again raised toward the lamp.
“I see.” Bill nodded. Then, “What’s he doing there?” he asked sharply. A thought had occurred to him. It was one which contained a faint suspicion.
The other looked him squarely in the eyes. Then a sort of voiceless chuckle shook his broad shoulders.
“Doin’? Wal, I guess he ain’t sparkin’ any lady friend, and I don’t calc’late he’s holdin’ any conversazione with Fyles and his crew.” O’Brien’s amusement had spread to his features, and Bill found himself wondering as to what internal trouble he was suffering from. “Charlie Bryant, bein’ a rancher, guess he’s roundin’ up a bunch of ‘strays.’ Y’see, he’s got a few greenback stock he’s mighty pertickler about. They was last seen around that pine.”
Bill stared.
“Greenbacked—cattle?” he exclaimed incredulously.
O’Brien laughed outright, and Bill was no longer left in doubt as to his malady.
“They’re a fancy breed,” the saloonkeeper declared, “and kind of rare hereabouts. They come from Ottawa way. The States breed ’em, too. Guess I’ll say good night.”