"Why should we consider his interests? He don't think of anybody else's when he wants anything," Pinkey demanded.
"Your friend bein' a newcomer, I thought he wouldn't want to locate in the middle of trouble."
"He can take care of himself," Pinkey declared, confidently; though, as they both glanced at Wallie, there seemed nothing in his appearance to justify his friend's optimism. He looked a lamblike pacifist as he sat fingering his straw hat diffidently.
Tucker brought his feet down with the air of a man who had done his duty and washed his hands of consequences; he prepared to make out the necessary papers. As he handled the documents he left fingerprints of such perfection on the borders that they resembled identification marks for classification under the Bertillon system, and Wallie was far more interested in watching him than in his intimation that there was trouble in the offing if he made this filing.
He paid his fees and filled out his application, leaving Tucker's office with a new feeling of importance and responsibility. One hundred and sixty acres was not much of a ranch as ranches go in Wyoming, but it was a beginning.
As soon as they were out of the building, Wallie inquired casually: "Does Miss Spenceley live in my neighbourhood?"
"Across the mounting!" Which reply conveyed nothing to Wallie. Pinkey added: "I punch cows for their outfit."
"Indeed," politely. Then, curiosity consuming him, he hazarded another question: "What did she say when she heard I was coming?"
"She laughed to kill herself." Pinkey seldom lied when the truth would answer.
In the meantime, Tucker, in guarded language, was informing Canby of the entry by telephone. From the sounds which came through the receiver he had the impression that the land baron was pulling the telephone out by the roots in his exasperation at the negligence of his hireling whom he had supposed had done sufficient work to hold it.
"I'll attend to it," he answered.
Tucker thought there was no doubt about that, and he had a worthy feeling of having earned the yearly stipend which he received from Canby for these small services.
"We'd better sift along and git out there," Pinkey advised when they were back at the Prouty House.
"To-day?"
"You bet you! That's no dream about Boise Bill bein' ugly, and he might try to hold the 160 if he got wind of your filing."
"In that event?"
"In that event," Pinkey mimicked, "he's more'n likely to run you off, unless you got the sand to fight fer it. That's what I meant in my telegram."
"Oh," said Wallie, enlightened. "'Sand' and--er--intestines are synonymous terms in your vernacular?"