“Maybe they are, Dan,” said the other, an angular man who ran a small hardware store a few yards lower down the street. “But they ain’t on this side of the Reservation anyway.”
The significant selfishness of his last remark brought the other round on him in a moment.
“That’s all you care for, eh?” Dan said witheringly. “Say. I’m working for the ‘diamond P’s,’ and they run their stock that aways. Hev you been through one o’ them Injun risings?”
The other shook his head.
“Jest so.”
Another man, stout and florid, Jack McCabe, the butcher, joined them.
“Can’t make it out. There ain’t been any Sun-dance, which is usual ’fore they get busy. Guess it ain’t no rising. Big Wolf’s too clever. If it was spring round-up or fall round-up it ’ud seem more likely. Guess some feller’s been and fired the woods. Which, by the way, is around Jason’s farm. Say, Dan Lawson, you living that way, ain’t it right that Jason’s got a couple of hundred beeves in his corrals?”
“Yes,” replied Dan of the “diamond P’s.” “He bought up the ’flying S’ stock. He’s holding ’em up for rebrandin’. Say, Nevil,” the cowpuncher 34 went on, turning to the wood-cutter of White River, “you oughter know how them red devils is doin’. Did you hear or see anything?”
Nevil turned with a slight flush tingeing his cheeks. He didn’t like the other’s tone.
“I don’t know why I should know or see anything,” he said shortly.