Carmena broke in on this coarsely jovial banter with smiling deference:
"You see it's as I told you, Mr. Slade—Dad is almost used up. But I'll act for him and——"
Slade's ham-like hand came down upon Farley's stooped shoulder in a thwack that doubled the invalid over and set him to coughing.
"Brace up, Dad," the trader-cowman rallied him in his bull voice. "You're not dead yet. Good thing for us your bark's worse'n your bite. Huh, Cochise?"
His massive body shook with a roar of laughter at the joke.
"This is Mr. Lennon—our guest," Carmena again interposed.
The big trader swung around to stare down upon the guest. Lennon stood a good six feet in his boots, but Slade over-topped him by two or three inches and was no less thickset than tall. He looked Lennon straight in the eyes, crushed his left hand in a hearty grip, and greeted him in a tone of bluff cordiality.
"So you're Carmena's new pard. Glad to see you in Dead Hole. She says you want to dicker with us."
"I said he might want to," murmured the girl.
Slade grinned genially at the guest's bandaged arm.