“Fresh.”
“All right, sheriff. But I warn yuh, they’re tasteless. Set up ag’in’ the table, will yuh? There’s milk in the can. Say, I hope some day I’ll work on a cow-ranch where they have cow-milk. Been a cowhand all m’ life, and all the milk I’ve ever seen was in cans. And that butter was shipped from Nebrasky. Sometimes we do accidently eat our own beef.”
There was plenty of good-natured banter during the breakfast, except from old Rance, who smoked his pipe and shot an occasional quizzical glance at the sheriff. It was unusual for the entire force of officers to be riding together at that time in the morning.
They finished their breakfast and shoved back from the table to enjoy their cigarettes. Old Chuckwalla gathered up the dishes and swept the table clean with a wet cloth. He knew something was wrong.
“Where’s Monty and Steve?” asked Slim.
“Gone to work,” said Chuckwalla.
“They wasn’t in town last night, was they?”
“They’re broke.”
“Good and sufficient reason,” grinned Chuck Ring. “Lot more cow-rasslers are broke this mornin’.”
Old Rance knocked the dottle out of his pipe, shoved the pipe in his pocket, and leaned forward on the table, facing the sheriff.