"I heard of it from a party who are out looking for George Hobbes. That is your name, is it?"
"That's the way I was billed during that performance at the bunk house."
"What are you, by profession—a cowboy or a gambler?"
"Cowboy."
Matt glanced at the young fellow's hands. They looked more like a gambler's hands than a cowboy's. And yet, skillful though he must have been with the cards, Hobbes had not the appearance of a gambler.
"Do you live here?" Matt went on.
"Yes," was the answer. "I told you, a moment ago, where my shack was."
"Then you're not doing much in the cattle line if you hang out in this deserted spot."
Hobbes gave a grunt and got up.
"What are you trying to pry into my business affairs for?" he asked surlily. "Do you think saving my life gives you a right to do that?"