“Well, dawggone it, I lost seventeen head of cows last—”
“I tell yuh what to do,” says Hashknife, serious-like. “You make out a list describin’ your lost cows, givin’ the name, age and general disposition and mail it to us, will yuh? Fine!”
“What good will that do yuh?”
“No good on earth; but yuh hankers to tell about ’em so bad that I just thought it might relieve yuh to set down and write it out—and I don’t like to listen to your voice. Honest to grandma, I don’t, Bowers. I ain’t jokin’.”
Bowers goes out, talking to himself, and Windy sets down in a chair.
“Mamma mine!” he chuckles. “Hashknife, you sure knows how to talk to folks. I wish I had eddication like that. All I can do is say something that is either plumb full of sugar, or else it’s fightin’ talk.
“You can say awful things to people and send ’em away talking to themselves, and they don’t know whether to get sore or shake hands with yuh. I’ll say you’re a wonder.”
For a couple of days we had perfect peace at the ranch. We don’t do a danged thing—much, except set around and wait for trouble. Windy insists that the Bar 20 is going to make trouble for us; so we polishes up all the guns and waits for the explosion.
Bowers pesticates up our way and sets down with us. I reckon he’s lost so much stock that it’s on his mind all the time.