“Likely,” nodded Skeeter dryly. “’F yuh don’t get lynched, you’ll figger out that I’ve told yuh the truth.”
Skeeter leaned a little closer and tapped the man on the knee with his finger.
“Pardner, ’f there’s anythin’ yuh don’t want t’ tell me the truth about—don’t tell anythin’. Sabe what I mean?”
“Afraid I’ll lie to you?”
“Tellin’ yuh not to. I don’t care who yuh are, nor what yuh are, pardner. I reckon the killin’ of my bronc was a mistake, but that’s all past. I don’t lie, and I won’t stand for no man lyin’ t’ me.”
The man looked curiously at him wondering if this lanky cowboy was joking or not. No, he decided that Skeeter Bill was not joking. A man who would not lie and would not stand for a liar was a novelty in the range-land. The man decided against prevarication.
“My name is Kirk,” he stated; “Jim Kirk.”
“Mine’s Sarg,” grinned Skeeter. “Mostly always, folks calls me Skeeter Bill.”
“I’m a sheepherder,” stated Kirk.
“I’m not!” snapped Skeeter. “I hate the —— things.”