“Yes, yes.”
“He’d got a tidy yarn, sure, an’ seein’ we was your hands, an’ his yarn was to do with your stock, he handed it to us with frills. He’d just got in from the hills, wher’ he’d been trailin’. He said he’d run into Jim Thorpe’s stock, tucked away in as nice a hollow of sweet grass as you’d find this side of Kentucky. Wal, he hadn’t no suspicion, seein’ whose beasties they were, an’ he was for makin’ back. He’d started, he said, when somethin’ struck him. Y’see he guessed of a sudden it was a mighty big bunch for a ranch-foreman to be running, an’ 215 ther’ was such a heap o’ half-bred Polled Angus amongst ’em. Wal, seein’ that kind was your specialty, he just guessed he’d ride round ’em an’ git a peek at the brands. Say, as he said, the game was clear out at once. They’d every son-of-a-cow got ‘
’ on ’em, but nigh haf wus re-brands over an’ blottin’ out the old one. He got to work an’ cut out an’ roped one o’ them half-breeds, an’ hevin’ threw him, got down an looked close. The original brand had been burned out, an’ the ‘
’ whacked deep over it. That’s just all, boss. We got out an’ brought the bunch in––that is, them we knew belonged to the ‘AZ’s.’”
An ominous silence followed the finish of his story. The smile on Jim’s face seemed to be frozen and meaningless. Dan was staring intently at his boots and flicking them with his quirt. Joe turned his head and exchanged a smile of meaning with Dutchy, and both men shifted into an easy pose, as much as to say, “Well, we’ve found the cattle duffer for you.” The moments passed heavily, then suddenly Dan looked up. There was storm in his eyes. He had forgotten the cow-punchers.
“Well, what are you waitin’ for?” he cried. “Get out!”
It was all the thanks the men got for the unctuously given story, and their hard work.
They vanished rapidly through the door, and hastened to air their grievance and repeat their story with added “frills” to ready ears at the bunk house.