‘Dunno yet,’ replied Hashknife. ‘We’re down here to spend the winter, but we’ve got to hit a cow country, where we can get work.’
‘Uh-huh. From up north, eh? I used to punch cows up in the Milk River country. Used to be around Pendleton, Umatilla, and then I was over in Idaho.’
‘We’ve been up in that country,’ nodded Hashknife. ‘I was born over on the Milk River.’
‘Thasso? What’s the name?’
‘Hartley.’
‘Hartley, eh? Any relation to Jim Hartley, of the Bar 77 outfit?’
‘I guess so; he’s my brother.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned! Why, me and old Jim—say! Yore dad was a preacher up in that country. Rode an old white horse and packed the gospel. No, I didn’t know him, but I heard a lot about him. They said he was the only preacher they ever had that didn’t try to convert somebody. Wasn’t tryin’ to show folks how to die; he showed ’em how to live straight. And you’re Jim’s brother! You’re Hennery, ain’t yuh? I’ve heard him tell about you. My name’s Evans—Noah Evans.’
They shook hands solemnly, and Hashknife introduced him to Sleepy.
‘Well, well!’ marveled Noah explosively. ‘She’s a small world, gents. I ain’t seen Jim Hartley for three or four years. Spent a winter up there, and I ain’t thawed out yet. Wish it was jist before dinner, I’d shore like to buy yuh both a drink.’