“They do get graduated fast, I reckon,” agreed Hashknife grinning. “Me and Sleepy earned ours. Do we get the job?”
Mrs. Snow smiled and shook her head. She liked the looks of these two bronzed, practical-looking men, but the Half-Moon was full handed.
“We’re runnin’ full of help, boys. Frosty said he’d likely have to cut down pretty soon.”
“Well, that’s too danged bad,” observed Hashknife. “I’d sure like to work for you, ma’am. Know any ranch that might be honin’ for two more to feed?”
Mrs. Snow smiled and shook her head, but sobered as she squinted at them.
“Might try the Tombstone Ranch.”
“Sounds right cheerful, ma’am,” observed Hashknife. “Do they raise ’em already carved?”
“Kinda,” admitted Mrs. Snow seriously. “Place belongs to old Amos Skelton, the meanest old son-of-a-gun that ever pulled on a boot. Everybody hates him.”
“Must amount to somethin’ then,” observed Sleepy.
“What does his iron look like—his brand?” asked Hashknife, reaching for the cigaret makings.