“No law ag’in’ it, is there?”
“Not that I ever heard about. Excuse me. My name’s McCall. ‘Jinyus’ McCall, to be exact. Used to be Albert, until I cooked a forty-year-old sage-hen for some fellers. One of ’em said I was a jinyus—and it stuck. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Hashknife laughed and scraped his heel along the short boards that had been laid as a walk near the door. He glanced down at the boards, but lifted his head quickly.
“C’mon in,” invited Jinyus. “I’ll make you somethin’ to eat right off the stove.”
“Fine.”
Hashknife stooped over quickly and picked up a little copper shell near the boards. The cook was looking at him curiously.
“Somebody been havin’ target practise, eh?” said Hashknife, exhibiting the twenty-two shell.
“Pop-gun practise!” snorted Jinyus. “Ever since Cutter sent away for that danged gun, they’ve shot at everythin’ on the ranch. Nothin’ is safe. Cutter is the boss here.”
“Oh, I see,” smiled Hashknife. He started to enter the kitchen, but a man’s voice stopped him short.
“What in hell do you want here?”