“Well, then, don’t call me mister. My name’s Hashknife. Now that yuh know me well enough to call me Hashknife, I’d say that I’d let about four X’s equal the missin’ bandits, and work out the problem from there. We’ve got the dog. Workin’ backwards from a dog, yuh ought to get quite a lot.
“In the beginning I’d like to ask yuh what yuh know about a feller who is workin’ for the AK outfit who is named Jimmy Legg.”
“James Eaton Legg,” said Marion solemnly. “He said it sounded like a cannibal. I don’t know a thing about him, except that he came to Blue Wells the night of the robbery. Johnny Grant took a liking to him, and took him out to the AK, where he’s been falling off horses ever since. He says he’s going to learn to be a cowboy, if he lives long enough—and that’s all I know about him.”
“Not much,” mused Hashknife. “Nice boy?”
“Certainly he’s nice,” said Marion, without hesitation.
“I s’pose so,” smiled Hashknife. “Bein’ as yo’re the boss of this outfit, suppose yuh tell us what yuh want done today.”
“I don’t know,” she confessed. “Suppose you spend the day in getting used to the place.”
“All right. Mebbe we’ll corral a few horses and look ’em over. If we handle the round-up for the Double Bar 8, we’re goin’ to need a remuda.”
“Sure. Suppose you ride back to Blue Wells some time today and bring back the three that are in the livery-stable. We forgot them.”
“That’s right. How about the chuck-wagon?”