“Feller by the name of Reimer—Butch Reimer. His ranch is about eight miles from here, between here and Red Arrer. Yuh can’t tell who owns the horse now, of course.”
“He’d probably know who owns it,” said Sleepy.
“Prob’ly might.”
“What kind of a feller?” asked Hashknife.
“Plumb forked, Butch is, and he hires a forked crew. Honest, as far as I know, though. That ain’t such a bad animal, at that. Betcha he’d stand a lot.”
“Betcha he’d give a lot, too,” smiled Hashknife. “Is he too lame to travel?”
“Might be. Be all right t’morrow.”
Hashknife and Sleepy went outside, sat down on the sidewalk and considered the situation. While Hashknife voiced no complaint, Sleepy knew that the tall cowboy would go through fire to get that gray horse back again.
“We’ll wait until that bronc is able to travel, Sleepy. One more day won’t make nor break us.”
“You mean to say you’d pull out and leave some danged thief to own Ghost?”