Sol grins and takes a fresh chew.
“They wasn’t hard to convince that your way was the best, was they?” I asks.
“I does the lawin’ fer Willer Crick, and they accepts my judgment—mostly. I comes to talk to yuh about th’ brat.”
“Boy, yuh mean,” says Hashknife. “In speakin’ of this offspring, Sol, use the boy’s name or just speak of him as ‘the boy.’”
The little jigger knows that Hashknife is sticking up for him, I can see that, and he kinda leans back against Hashknife.
“This here ranch,” says Sol, “belongs to—well, I reckon it’s a question. Jim Sillman owns part of it and the rest of it’s to be settled by the council.”
“Meanin’ that Buddy gets gipped out of his ranch, eh?” asks Hashknife.
“Under the circumstances, the br—Buddy don’t own nothin’. His folks was just suffered to kinda live here.”
“Suffered,” nods Hashknife. “Go ahead.”
“I reckon that’s all.”