“Where’d he come from?”
“Don’t know as Joe ever said, and I never asked him. Look here, if yo’re figgerin’ that Joe Kipp is mixed up with Fox and ain’t square, yo’re plumb wrong. Joe’s honest, bank on that. I’d bet my last steer on it.”
“Mebbe so yuh done bet ’em already, and lost ’em,” laughed Tad.
Hank smiled bitterly.
“I reckon not, Ladd. Does ol’ Joe look like a crook er a cow thief tuh you?”
“No, Hank. If ever a man had honest eyes, it’s Kipp. A right nice ol’ feller from what me’n Shorty seen uh him. How long has this Fox pole cat bin clutterin’ up the range around here?”
“Three years. He leased and bought all the range he could git holt of and throwed in some dogie stuff from the south. Black Jack come with the cattle. He’s bin after my range ever since he come to these parts, but he never offered nowhere near a fair price. He told me, last time he made me a offer, that it was his top price and if I didn’t take it, he’d bust me. It looks like he’s shore doin’ it, too. Him and that black-whiskered Injun.”
“Is Black Jack a Injun?” asked Tad. “Half-breed, so they claim. Apache, I reckon, by his looks. It wouldn’t surprise me none if he’s a outlaw. If he wasn’t scared uh bein’ recognized, why does he wear them whiskers? I asked Joe but he ’lowed a man couldn’t arrest a man and shave him without havin’ danged good reason, and I reckon he’s right.”
They rode on, each of the three busy with his own thoughts. Ma Basset was waiting for them at the corral. Beside her stood Joe Kipp. Both seemed unusually excited. Ma Basset’s eyes showed signs of weeping.
“God help us and him, Hank!” she cried out as Hank dismounted, “Pete’s escaped the pen!”