“Wal, I don’t know enough to talk aboot. Your dad never said so, but I think he an’ Jorth knew each other in Texas years ago. I never saw Jorth but once. That was in Greaves’s barroom. Your dad an’ Jorth met that day for the first time in this country. Wal, I’ve not known men for nothin’. They just stood stiff an’ looked at each other. Your dad was aboot to draw. But Jorth made no sign to throw a gun.”
Jean saw the growing and weaving and thickening threads of a tangle that had already involved him. And the sudden pang of regret he sustained was not wholly because of sympathies with his own people.
“The other day back up in the woods on the Rim I ran into a sheepman who said his name was Colter. Who is he?
“Colter? Shore he’s a new one. What’d he look like?”
Jean described Colter with a readiness that spoke volumes for the vividness of his impressions.
“I don’t know him,” replied Blaisdell. “But that only goes to prove my contention—any fellow runnin’ wild in the woods can say he’s a sheepman.”
“Colter surprised me by callin’ me by my name,” continued Jean. “Our little talk wasn’t exactly friendly. He said a lot about my bein’ sent for to run sheep herders out of the country.”
“Shore that’s all over,” replied Blaisdell, seriously. “You’re a marked man already.”
“What started such rumor?”
“Shore you cain’t prove it by me. But it’s not taken as rumor. It’s got to the sheepmen as hard as bullets.”