"What's the news?"
"Ain't any news," responded Buck dejectedly. "Too much talk; no news."
"That's right," nodded Gary Peters. "O'Brien is the out-talkingest man I
ever see. Ain't nobody on Brownsville can get his tongue around so many
words as O'Brien."
So saying, he blew through his pipe, picked up a stick of soft pine, and
began to whittle it to a point.
"In my part of the country," went on Buck Daniels, "they don't lay much
by a man that talks a pile."
Here the blacksmith turned his head slowly, regarded his companion for
an instant, and then resumed his whittling.
"But," said Daniels, with a sigh, "if I could find a man that knowed
the country north of Brownsville and had a hobble on his tongue I could
give him a night's work that'd be worth while."
Gary Peters removed his pipe from his mouth and blew out his dropping
moustaches. He turned one wistful glance upon his idle forge; he turned
a sadder eye upon his companion.
"I could name you a silent man or two in Brownsville," he said, "but
there ain't only one man that knows the country right."
"That so? And who might he be?"
"Me."
"You?" echoed Daniels in surprise. He turned and considered Gary as if
for the first time. "Maybe you know the lay of the land up as far as
Hawkin's Arroyo?"
"Me? Son, I know every cactus clear to Bald Eagle."
"H-m-m!" muttered Daniels. "I s'pose maybe you could name some of the
outfits from here on a line with Bald Eagle--say you put 'em ten miles
apart?"
"Nothin' easier.
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