“Yeah. Don’t squeeze that swellin’.”
Came the sound of horses walking on the hard-packed ground of the ranch-yard. Chuckwalla stepped to the door and looked outside.
Slim Caldwell, the sheriff, Chuck Ring and Scotty McKay were dismounting near the kitchen door. Chuckwalla turned his head and glanced quickly at Rance, who was holding the wet compress to his temple.
“Got company,” said Chuckwalla softly. “Officially.”
Old Rance did not look up until the three officers were in the doorway. Slim Caldwell looked curiously at old Rance.
“What have yuh been doin’ to yoreself, Rance?” he asked.
“Gittin’ bumped,” shortly.
“Shore looks like it.”
“You fellers must ’a’ got up before breakfast,” said Chuckwalla, grinning.
“Ye guessed it,” nodded McKay, sniffing at the odors of coffee. Chuckwalla knew that was an acceptance of his unvoiced invitation, and he proceeded to add to the pot of coffee and to slice more bacon.