“Yuh aim tuh make a dicker fer the Basset iron, boss? Watch clost that ol’ Hank don’t sluff the ol’ lady off on yuh along with the brand.”
Hank and Ma Basset came on slowly, their horses scuffing up puffs of yellow dust.
The old couple looked tired and worried. Ma, dressed in bib overalls, flannel shirt, and an old slouch hat, filled her saddle to the point overflowing. Her eyes were a bit red as if from recent shedding of tears. Of the two, Hank looked the more downcast as they approached the lone tree that marked the boundary line. Low on Hank’s thigh swung a .45 in a weather-stained holster. Across Ma’s saddle pommel rested a sawed-off shotgun.
“Looky here, Hank Basset, perk up. I don’t aim that Fox should see us down in the mouth. Land sakes, can’t yuh scare up a grin of some description to wear on yore face. You don’t see me sittin’ my hoss like a dogie in a blizzard.”
At that moment her horse, an old flea-bitten gray, stumbled and went to his knees, jolting the breath out of Ma as her saddle horn jabbed her. Hank did his best to hide a grin. Ma, red-faced and gasping, gave him an angry look.
“If that ain’t a cowpuncher for yuh! I do believe you’d laugh if I was to be killed by this crow-bait of a hoss. Now what’s so comical? What yuh grinnin’ at?”
“Yuh ’lowed I was tuh perk up, Ma. I’m perkin’.”
Hank’s hand, searching for tobacco, encountered Kipp’s sheriff badge.
“Joe Kipp and the Ladd feller ’lowed they’d be here at noon today. The sun lacks half a hour uh throwin’ the short shadder. We ain’t licked yet.”
“If ary harm had come to Pete, I’d feel it in my bones, Hank. What was it Joe Kipp said about that paper in his safe?”