“You can use another man, can’t you, Crane?”
“I might.” Crane was not enthusiastic.
“I’m filled up at my ranch,” explained Big Jim. “Got more punchers than
I know what to do with; so I’ll let Crane have you. He needs another
man. Got a horse?”
“I’ve got somethin’ with four legs and a tail,” grinned Bill. “It ain’t
a bronc.”
They walked outside and he pointed out his gray at the hitch-rack across
the street. Big Jim laughed and went toward the bank, while Bill Smith
and Crane crossed to the rack and got their horses.
Crane was not strong on conversation, and Bill wondered why Big Jim had
hired him to work on the XO-Bar-5. He did not know that Big Jim owned
that outfit, but he was beginning to think so.
“Does the big feller own your ranch?” he asked.
Crane nodded jerkily.
“Yeah. That’s Big Jim Mott. Didn’t yuh ever hear of him?”
“What did he ever do?”
“Oh, ----! I dunno. He owns most of this country.”
“Got lots of money?”
“Yeah. Owns the bank in Antelope and helps run the State.”
“Looks like a fighter.”
Crane laughed grimly, but did not express any opinion. He had heard of
Big Jim’s fight with old Rory McPherson.
“I came in from that direction,” said Bill, pointing northeast, “and I
ran into the Lightnin’-brand ranch. Had a talk with the jeezer that
owns it. That is, I tried to have a talk with him. He sure is short on
conversation.”
“That was Paint Pablo,” said Crane. “---- Injun!”
“He ain’t very ornamental, that’s a cinch,” grinned Bill.
“No, and yuh don’t want to trust him too far, either. Say, I don’t even
know your name.”
“William H. Smith.”
Crane spat dryly and nodded.
“Bill Smith, eh? You don’t look like none of the Smith family I’ve ever
seen. Where yuh been workin’, Smith?”
“You don’t expect me to answer that, do yuh?”
Crane grinned and bit a corner off his plug of tobacco.
“All right. If anybody asks me, I’ll say yuh hails from Oklahoma, or
from some other seaport. Yuh look honest.”
“Since when did cow-ranches require a puncher to look honest, Crane?”
“All right, all right, Smith. You ain’t no mail-order puncher, that’s
a cinch. You’ll bunk with Slim Whelan. He’s a forked gent, with a
salty disposition, and kinda addicted to solitaire. I hate two-handed
games; so I don’t play with Slim. Mebbe he’ll take exceptions to your
looks; but I reckon yuh can take care of William H. Smith.”
“I’ve raised him ever since he was born,” grinned Bill.
“And that wasn’t yesterday,” agreed Crane warmly.
“Nope--it was several weeks ago.”
“I betcha.”
Slim Whelan met them at the gate, which sagged on its hinges so badly
that Slim fairly had to carry it open. He squinted at the newcomer and
waited for Crane to introduce him.
“I used t’ know a Smith,” he said innocently, “and I wonder if you’re
related to him.”
“He was my brother,” said Bill seriously. “Kind of a queer sort of a
jigger, with two legs, two arms and a head on top of his neck.”
“By ----, that’s him!” exclaimed Slim. “You shore described him in a few
words. And I’ll bet yo’re jist like the cowboy in the story-book--you
love your horse.”