“Pleased to meetcha,” said Sleepy.
“Happy t’ know yuh,” muttered Ike. “You fellers ain’t from down in this country, are yuh? Notice yore boots are higher than most punchers wear down here.”
“Got these in Miles City, Montana,” said Sleepy.
“Hell, you fellers are shore travelers. Way up there, eh? I’ve heard about the cow-country up thataway. Good riders up there, they tell me. A Oregon puncher was a-tellin’ me that the bronc-riders are better up there, and the horses bigger, but he said that the Southwest puncher was a better roper. I dunno.”
“Mebbe”—Sleepy passed his Durham and papers—“I ain’t seen enough punchers in this country to see how they compare. We’ve got some hy-iu cowhands up there, pardner. Where is that Oregon puncher?”
“Works for the K-10 outfit. Name’s Sam Blair. I dunno just where he’s from, but he talks about Oregon; so I figured he was from there.”
“Uh-huh.” Sleepy squinted away from the smoke of his cigarette and considered his toes. “What kind of an outfit is this K-10?”
“Cattle. Baldy Kern owns the place. Him and Big Medicine ain’t friendly. Yuh see, Big Medicine didn’t want another cattle outfit in Hawk Hole; so Baldy kinda sets on the edge. No, they ain’t never had no open trouble, but Baldy knows where to head in at.”
“Hawkworth been here a long time, ain’t he?”
“Hell, yes. Must ’a’ come here twenty-five years ago. Took up a homestead, I reckon. Then he got other men to take up homesteads and turn ’em over to him. Bimeby he’s got most of Hawk Hole. Then he bought the rest from the Government for about two bits per acre.