She was a tiny wisp of a woman, dressed in faded calico. About fifty years of age, with a mild, sweet face and soft, blue eyes. She stared at the two cowboys for a moment, and a flush crept into her tanned face.
“Ma’am,” said the tall cowboy taking off his hat, “I plumb betcha that cook knows where to head in at about now.”
“Did—did you hear—me?” she faltered.
“Yes’m. I’m ‘Hashknife’ Hartley and my pardner’s name is ‘Sleepy’ Stevens. Nod to the lady, Sleepy.”
“I am Mrs. Snow,” said the lady. “‘Frosty’ Snow is my husband. He owns this Half-Moon Ranch.”
“T’ meetcha,” bowed Hashknife, and then seriously, “Ma’am, if that cook ain’t took the hint yet, I’d admire to repeat yore words to him.”
“The—there ain’t no cook here now,” confessed Mrs. Snow.
“Ain’t? Why——”
“He won’t quit, don’tcha see? His name’s ‘Swede Sam,’ and if —— ever made a more ignorant person than Swede Sam he sure kept him under cover for loco-seed.”
“Didja ever try firin’ him?” asked Hashknife.