The sheriff and deputy rode in through the gate and up to the ranch-house, where they met old George Bonnette, owner of the outfit. He was a pudgy little man, almost bald, almost toothless, one cheek bulged from a huge chew of tobacco. He spat explosively and nodded to the officers. It was not often that the law came to the AK, and the old man looked at them curiously.
“Howdy, George,” said the sheriff.
“’Lo, Scotty; hyah, Porter,” Bonnette shifted his chew and waited for them to state their errand.
“Where’s the boys?” asked Scotty, glancing around.
“Well,” the old man scratched his head, “I’ve only got three workin’ here now. T’day is pay-day.”
“Meanin’ that they’ve gone to town, eh?”
“Follerin’ the natcheral inclination of cowpunchers, I’d say that’s where they’ve gone. Whatcha want ’em fer?”
“Oh, nothin’ much,” Scotty sighed with evident relief. He really didn’t want them very badly.
“You heard about the hold-up, didn’t yuh?” asked Porter.
Bonnette hadn’t. And he grew so interested in Porter’s recital of it that he bit off two more chews of tobacco during the telling, which swelled his cheek until one eye was almost closed.