“My mistake, young feller. When I get riled up I don't pick my words.” He eyed Bud sharply. “You're mighty quick to obey orders,” He added tentatively. “I was brought up to do as I'm told,” Bud retorted stiffly. “Any objections to make?” “Not one in the world. Wish there was more like yuh. You ain't been in these parts long?” His tone made a question of the statement. “Not right here.” Bud had no reason save his temper for not giving more explicit information, but Bart Nelson--as Bud knew him afterwards--continued to study him as if he suspected a blotched past. “Hunh. That your horse?” “I've got a bill of sale for him.” “You don't happen to be wanting a job, I s'pose?” “I wouldn't refuse to take one.” And then the twinkle came back to Bud's eyes, because all at once the whole incident struck him as being rather funny. “I'd want a boss that expected to have his orders carried out, though. I lack imagination, and I never did try to read a man's mind. What he says he'd better mean--when he says it to me.” Bart Nelson gave a short laugh, turned and sent his riders back to their work with oaths tingling their ears. Bud judged that cursing was his natural form of speech. “Go let up that steer, and I'll put you to work,” he said to Bud afterwards. “That's a good rope horse you're riding. If you want to use him, and if you can hold up to that little sample of roping yuh gave us, I'll pay yuh sixty a month. And that's partly for doing what you're told,” he added with a quick look into Bud's eyes. “You didn't say where you're from----” “I was born and raised in cow-country, and nobody's looking for me,” Bud informed him over his shoulder while he remounted, and let it go at that. From southern Wyoming to Idaho was too far, he reasoned, to make it worth while stating his exact place of residence. If they had never heard of the Tomahawk outfit it would do no good to name it. If they had heard of it, they would wonder why the son of so rich a cowman as Bob Birnie should be hiring out as a common cowpuncher so far from home. He had studied the matter on his way north, and had decided to let people form their own conclusions. If he could not make good without the name of Bob Birnie behind him, the sooner he found it out the better. He untied the steer, drove it back into the herd and rode over to where the high-nosed man was helping hold the “Cut.” “Can you read brands? We're cuttin' out AJ and AJBar stuff; left ear-crop on the AJ, and undercut on the AJBar.”