Horseshoes, ploughs, harrows, iron gates and cart and buggy wheels of all kinds were lying about in disorderly profusion.
The noonday sun was pouring in aslant at the front door, while at the back door, away from Hanson, a Russian wolf-hound was stretched out lazily gnawing at a bone which it held between its fore paws.
The furnace fire was blazing, and Pederstone’s anvil was ringing merrily, when suddenly the melodious sounds were interrupted by a deep growl and then a yelp of pain from the hound as it sprang away from the spurred 37 boot of a great, rough, yet handsome figure of a man of the cowboy type, who came striding in, legs apart, dressed in sheepskin chaps.
“Say, Ped!––ain’t you got that hoss o’ mine shod? Can’t wait all day in this burg!”
The smith stopped suddenly and glared at the newcomer.
“None of that Ped stuff, you untamed Indian! Mr. Royce Pederstone to you and your kind; and, if you don’t like it and can’t wait your turn, take your cayuse out of here and tie her up at the back of the hotel for an hour or two. You’re not half drunk enough yet to be going back to Redmans Creek.”
“All right, Mister-Royce-Pederstone––but I ain’t Indian, and don’t you forgit it. The fact that I git all the booze I like from Charlie Mac settles that in this burg.”
It was a sore point with the newcomer, for at least three-quarters of him was white, and part of it first-class white at that.
He took off his hat.
“Ever see an Indian with hair like that?”