The little man dropped his washing and turned round, propping himself against the edge of the tub.
“Skitter Bend Ranch?” he echoed slowly, as though the meaning of the question had not penetrated to his intellect. Then a subdued whisper followed. “Gee, but I——” And he looked down at his own clothes as though to reassure himself.
Tresler broke in; he understood the trend of the other’s thoughts.
“Yes, Mosquito Bend,” he said sharply.
“Nigh to a mile on. Keep to the trail, an’ you’ll strike Blind Hell in a few minutes. Say——” He broke off, and looked up into Tresler’s face.
“Yes, I’m going there. You don’t happen to belong to—to Blind Hell?”
“Happen I do,” assured the washerman. “I do the chores around the ranch. Joe Nelson, once a stock raiser m’self. Kerrville, Texas. Now——” He broke off, and waved a hand in the direction of the drying clothes.
“Well, I’m John Tresler, and I’m on my way to Mosquito Bend.”
“So you’re the ‘tenderfoot,’” observed the choreman, musingly. “You’re the feller from Noo England as Jake’s goin’ to lick into shape.”