"Good evening, gentlemen," said Bridge.
"Evenin'," snapped Grayson. "Go over to the cookhouse
and the Chink'll give you something to eat. Turn your pony in
the lower pasture. Smith'll show you where to bunk tonight,
an' you kin hev your breakfast in the mornin'. S'long!" The
ranch superintendent turned back to the paper in his hand
which he had been discussing with his employer at the moment
of the interruption. He had volleyed his instructions at
Bridge as though pouring a rain of lead from a machine gun,
and now that he had said what he had to say the incident
was closed in so far as he was concerned.
The hospitality of the Southwest permitted no stranger to
be turned away without food and a night's lodging. Grayson
having arranged for these felt that he had done all that might
be expected of a host, especially when the uninvited guest was
so obviously a hobo and doubtless a horse thief as well, for
who ever knew a hobo to own a horse?
Bridge continued to sit where he had reined in his pony. He
was looking at Grayson with what the discerning boss judged
to be politely concealed enjoyment.
"Possibly," suggested the boss in a whisper to his aide, "the
man has business with you. You did not ask him, and I am
sure that he said nothing about wishing a meal or a place to
sleep.
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