“Well, I’ll be danged!” snorted Regan.
“Hello, Moran!”
“Hello Slim,” called Moran. “Howdy, Clayton.”
He shook hands with the two cowboys and introduced them to Hashknife and, at the same time, he told them how it happened that he was riding to the ranch. Slim looked appraisingly at Hashknife. Slim was a cowman and a judge of cowboys. His practised eye noted the riding rig of the tall cowboy, the cut of his well worn chaps, the hang of his belt and gun. His eyes flashed back to Hashknife’s serious face, and he half-smiled as he said:
“Boy, howdy! Your outfit never got to lookin’ that way from ridin’ now and then.”
“I’ve been around,” said Hashknife modestly.
“I’ll betcha. Lookin’ for work?”
Hashknife grinned at Moran.
“Must be a habit in this country, Moran—this ‘work’ idea.”
Moran laughed and explained.