"Naturally I am." The stranger's eyes shifted to Swing Tunstall's face.
"Yeah—naturally." Thus Racey Dawson. The stranger's eyes returned quickly to Racey. There had been a barely perceptible pause between the two words uttered by Racey Dawson. Pauses signify a great deal at times. This might be one of those times and it might not. The stranger couldn't be sure. From that moment the stranger watched Racey Dawson even as the proverbial cat watches the mouse hole.
Racey knew that the stranger was watching him. And he knew why. So he smiled with bland stupidity and nodded a foolish head.
"What wages?" he inquired.
"Fifty per," was the reply.
"Where?"
"Southeast of Dogville—the Rafter H ranch."
"The Rafter H, huh? I thought that was Haley's outfit."
"I expect to buy out Haley," explained the stranger, smoothly. "My name's Harpe, Jack Harpe. What may I call you gents?… Dawson and Tunstall, eh? I—"
"Haley ain't much better than a nester," interrupted Racey. "He don't own more'n forty cows. What you want with two punchers for a small bunch like that—and at fifty per?"