Jack made no comment. Something seemed to tell him to depend on this lanky disciple of the rangeland. Sleepy scowled for a while, but the scowl gave way to a knowing grin. He knew that Hashknife was inbued with an idea. Every inch of the tall cowboy bespoke the fact that he was riding for a purpose.
They went north for a short distance and then swung to the east, leaving the road and heading for Lo Lo River. And as they strung out in single file along on an old cattle trail, Hashknife lifted his voice in mournful song:
Old Bill was a pun-n-n-ncher
And you’ll all agree-e-e-e
That a puncher’s a man of low mental-i-tee-e-e.
Now Bill went a-ridin-n-n-n’,
With a rope in his ha-a-and,
And by accident ropes one of his neighbor’s brand.
Poor Bill was astonished
His error to fi-i-i-ind,