“It’s the old 33 outfit. Folks named it the Tombstone about a year ago. Bill Wheeler owned the old 33 and he let Caldwell put their graveyard on his ranch. It was a kinda nice spot, where the grass stays green most of the time. Then old Amos comes along and buys Bill out. Amos is a danged old blow-hard and most everybody starts in hatin’ him at the drop of a hat.
“Long comes Halloween Eve and some brainless cowpunchers goes down to the graveyard, swipes the tombstones, and when old Amos wakes up the next mornin’ his front yard is set full of them epi-tafts.
“It was a good joke on Amos, don’t you think?”
“Did he laugh?” queried Hashknife.
“Not so’s you could notice it,” smiled Mrs. Snow. “He took a plow and harrer up to the graveyard, and when he got through cultivatin’ it would take a higher power than exists in the Lodge-Pole country to tell where all them tombstones belonged. Yessir, he sure did remove all the brands. Them tombstones are all in his front yard yet, and I reckon they’ll stay.”
Hashknife and Sleepy laughed immoderately. Mrs. Snow looked severe for a moment, but joined in the laugh.
“Any punchers workin’ for that outfit?” asked Hashknife, still laughing.
“One—‘Quinin’ Quinn.”
“Why for the medicine cognomen?” asked Hashknife.
“Bitter. Quinn ain’t smiled since he was born. Fact. Ain’t got no grin-wrinkles on his face—not one. Nobody plays poker with him, ’cause of his face. Him and old Amos makes a good pair—to let alone.”