The ranch-house of the Circle M was a rambling affair consisting of but one floor. The exterior was rough boards, weathered, unpainted. There were two stables and a number of low sheds, branding corral, bucking corral and general utility corrals. A number of loose horses were in the larger corral.
Smoke was pouring from the kitchen stovepipe, and in a few minutes a man came from the stable and went to the house.
“That’s Ben Collins,” said Slim. “I know his walk.”
“Have they got a Chink cook?” asked Sleepy.
“Nope. Dutch Siebert does most of the cookin’. He’s a puncher. Ed never could keep a cook, it seems, so he uses Dutch. He’s an awful flat-head.”
“Merrick?”
“No—Siebert. Danged flat-faced, obstinate sort of a cuss.”
Sleepy stretched out on the ground and pillowed his head on his arms.
“Wake me up early, mother; I’m to be queen of the May,” he grinned. “If yuh won’t tell me what we’re doin’ here, I’m goin’ to take a nap. Yuh might as well sleep, Slim.”
“Go ahead,” said Hashknife. “I’ll wake yuh up in time.”