Patches shrugged his shoulders much as he had done that day of his first
experience with the screwworms; then he said quietly, "Do you mind
telling me about them, Phil?"
"Why, there's not much to tell," returned the cowboy. "That is, there's
not much that anybody knows for certain. Nick was born in Yavapai
County. His father, old George Cambert, was one of the kind that seems
honest enough, and industrious, too, but somehow always just misses it.
They moved away to some place in Southern California when Nick was about
grown. He came back six years ago, and located over there at the foot of
Tailholt Mountain, and started his Four-Bar-M iron; and, one way or
another, he's managed to get together quite a bunch of stock. You see,
his expenses don't amount to anything, scarcely. He and Joe bach in an
old shack that somebody built years ago, and they do all the riding
themselves. Joe's not much force, but he's handier than you'd think, as
long as there's somebody around to tell him what to do, and sort of back
him up. Nick, though, can do two men's work any day in the year."
"But it's strange that a man like Nick would have anything to do with
such a creature as that poor specimen," mused Patches.
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