Steen, the foreman, was there, and met them as they dismounted. He and Hashknife looked keenly at each other for several moments.
“I’ll betcha,” said Hashknife slowly, “I’ll betcha, if yuh had that bunch of hair off yore face, I’d call yuh Bill Steen.”
“Hartley! You old, long-legged galliwimpus!”
Bill Steen almost threw himself at Hashknife, reaching out with both hands. They mauled each other with rough delight, while the sheepmen grinned and stacked their rifles.
“Well, dern yore old soul!” exploded Steen. “Long time I no see yuh, Hashknife.”
“Plenty long,” grinned Hashknife. “Yo’re the last person I ever expected to see up here. Bill, when in —— did you turn to sheep?”
“About five years ago. Oh, I’m an old sheepherder now, Hashknife. It pays me better than the cows did. Well, how in —— are yuh?”
“No better than ever, Bill. This here excess baggage of mine is named Sleepy Stevens. Sleepy, you’ve heard me tell of Bill Steen.”
Sleepy shook hands with him gravely.
“Yeah, I’ve heard yuh tell about him. You and him stole cows together, didn’t yuh?”