“Hasn't he lived up here long?” asked one of the men, busy with some bacon over a fire.
“They say not.”
“He's a heavy-set fellow, with reddish hair; not so tall as you, I reckon, and some heavier. Was wearing chaps and gauntlets when he made his getaway. From the description, he looks something like you, I shouldn't wonder.”
Fraser congratulated himself that he had had the foresight to discard as many as possible of these helps to identification before he was three miles from Gimlet Butte. Now he laughed pleasantly.
“Sure he's heavier than me, and not so tall.”
“It would be a good joke, Bud, if they took you back to town for this man,” cut in Arlie, troubled at the direction the conversation was taking, but not obviously so.
“I ain't objecting any, sis. About three days of the joys of town would sure agree with my run-down system,” the Texan answered joyously.
“When you cowpunchers do get in, you surely make Rome howl,” one of the deputies agreed, with a grin. “Been in to the Butte lately?”
The Texan met his grin. “It ain't been so long.”
“Well, you ain't liable to get in again for a while,” Arlie said emphatically. “Come on, Bud, we've got to be moving.”