“Brick’s so danged dumb that they has to come over here every week to remind him he’s the sheriff,” offered Harp seriously.
“Ought to pin his star on the wall,” observed Silent. “Might nail her to the door, so every time he comes up to the place he’ll know what he’s comin’ here for.”
But Brick did not take offense at their jokes. They knew that Brick was capable, honest, and was doing everything in his power to keep the peace of Sun Dog County. Silent Slade worked for the Nine-Bar-Nine cattle outfit, located about twelve miles southeast of Marlin City, where Brick had been foreman before he had been elected sheriff. Harp Harris had also been one of the Nine-Bar-Nine cowpunchers.
Old Lafe Freeman, owner of the Nine-Bar-Nine, had sworn to high heaven that the gods were against him when he lost Brick and Harp. Old Lafe was a little, old, grizzled cow-man; one of the fast-disappearing type of old-timers, who had carved out a niche in cowland with the combination of a six-shooter and square-dealing.
After an appreciable period of silence, the big Nine-Bar-Nine cowboy yawned widely and audibly.
“Didja ever try sleep for that?” queried Harp.
“That has all the earmarks of a jest,” observed Silent. “Some day I’m goin’ to date time from the minute yuh made me laugh.”
Silent turned to Brick, opened his mouth to capacity and yelled loud enough to shake the windows—
“How in are yuh?”
“Kinda downcast,” replied Brick softly.