Hashknife stopped and squinted at a spotted yearling, which had turned broadside to him, about fifty feet away.
“You brand on the right hip, Bliz?”
“Uh-huh.”
Hashknife stepped inside the house and took a coiled rope from a peg in the wall. Quickly fashioning a hondo and running out a loop, he roped the yearling, which bucked and bawled, kicking over a number of tombstones in its gyrations, while Sleepy and Hashknife dug their heels into the hard ground and held it firm.
“Mebbe I’m wrong,” panted Hashknife, “but I wish you’d take a squint at that brand, Bliz.”
Skelton approached the half-choked calf and squinted at the 88 on its hip.
“Nothin’ but an 88 calf,” he replied.
“Look closer,” urged Hashknife. “See if the front halves of the 88 ain’t newer burn than the other.”
“By ——, it is!” exploded Skelton foolishly. “Whatcha know about that? Who in —— done that?”
“Come on and let’s put the critter into the corral,” ordered Hashknife.