“Uh-huh.” Old Sam squinted thoughtfully. “Well, it ain’t none of my business. I ain’t seekin’ information, but I’ll bet odds that neither one of yuh ever herded sheep nor worked for sheep outfits.”
“Thanks,” dryly.
“Yuh don’t need to thank me.”
“Hodges—” Hashknife slowly moistened the edge of his cigaret paper and shaped his cigaret carefully—“why is that sheep outfit standin’ still?”
“Why? Huh! Well, the dead-line, for one thing.”
“Been any shootin’ up there?”
“A little. Nobody hurt—yet.”
“Just a case of waitin’, eh? Kinda hard on the ranches, ain’t it? All the cowboys on the dead-line thataway.”
“Yeah, I reckon so. But the roundup is over for this year.”
“Uh-huh. Well, mebbe that’s right. Seems to me that King ain’t makin’ a —— of an effort to break through.”