“Well, we’re sure much obliged to you, Mrs. Snow,” said Hashknife. “We’ll mosey along to Caldwell, I reckon. If you can’t make your cook understand anythin’, send for me. I sure sabe one word he’ll jump for.”
“Tell it to me, will you?”
“Skoal.”
“Shucks!” Mrs. Snow laughed shortly. “I sabe that one. It’s like sayin’, ‘Here’s my regards.’”
“Yeah, that’s true,” admitted Hashknife solemnly. “But yuh might yelp it just before you hit him with the ax.”
They turned their horses and rode back around the house, heading toward Caldwell.
Ahead of them the dusty road circled through the hills, as though following the lines of least resistance.
There was little flat land in the Lodge-Pole range, but it was ideal for cattle; the breaks giving protection for feed in Summer and for stock in Winter. Cottonwood grew in abundance along the streams, and every cañon seemed heavily stocked with willow. The hills were scored with stock-trails, leading from water to the higher ground.
“Don’t like this country,” declared Sleepy after they had ridden away from the Half-Moon, “too many places to shoot from cover.”