Forbes passed on further orders. He did it in a dry voice that refused responsibility. “He ain’t. The boss says he’s under obligations to him an’ you boys will treat him right. An’ he means every word of it. I wouldn’t advise none of you to get gay with—with our guest.”
“How is the boss?” asked Burt.
“Doc says he’ll do fine if no complications occur.”
“He’s got the right idea, Doc has,” Burwell grinned. “Always leave yoreself an alibi. Operation successful, but patient shy of vitality. No flowers, please.”
“Tha’s no way to talk,” reproved Forbes. “The old man’s all right. He’s lying there on the chaste lounge chipper as a woodchuck in the garbage barrel at a dude ranch. You got a consid’rable nerve to get funny about him, Burwell.”
“I didn’t aim for to get funny about him, but about the doc,” apologized the harvest hand. “Looks like when I open my mouth I always put my foot in it.”
“You put more ham an’ aigs an’ flannel cakes in it than any guy I ever did see,” commented the foreman. “I been watchin’ to see if all that fuel wouldn’t mebbe steam you up for work, but I ain’t noticed any results yet. Prob’ly you wear out all yore strength talkin’ foolishness.”
“That had ought to hold you hitched for a while, Burwell,” Dusty chuckled.
“All right, boys. Let’s go. Get busy,” the sheriff ordered crisply.
They poured out of the bunkhouse to get their horses.