The old warrior helped himself to a chew of tobacco. "You lose. She's Clint Wadley's daughter, an' he's an old-timer. Knocked the bark off'n this country, Clint did. I used to know him when he was takin' the hides off the buffaloes. Got his start that way, I reckon. Clint's outfit got six thousand tongues in six months oncet. Pickled the tongues an' sold 'em for three cents apiece, by gum. Delivered the hides at Clarendon for one-fifty straight on contract."
"I've heard of Wadley," the salesman said. "What's the kid going to Tascosa for?"
"Goin' to stay awhile with her aunt, I 'low. Her brother was killed recent."
"I've heard about that, too. They caught the fellow, didn't they—the one that did it?"
"They got a Mexican jailed for it. I dunno whether he done it or not. That young Ranger on the box run him down."
"That kid in buckskin?" sneered the city man.
The ex-Confederate bristled at the tone rather than the words. He happened to be a friend of the youth mentioned.
"I'll follow Jack's dust any day of the week. He's one hell-poppin' rooster. No better man rides leather. When I druv a wagon oncet gatherin' bones—"
"Gathering bones?"
"Sure—buffalo-bones, for fertilizer. Well, that same Jack Roberts yanked me out o' the Canadian when I was drowndin'. Took a big chance, too."