"Get me some day without a hang-over," was the other's heavily boastful reply.
"Say, son, where'd you learn to shoot that way?"
"Down in the Panhandle Country," was the promptly mendacious reply.
"Learnt ridin', too, I s'pose?"
"Anything on hoofs," acknowledged the other, as he made a fumble at rolling a cigarette.
"You out o' work?" casually inquired the stranger.
"Yep!"
"What's your trade?"
Kestner felt that his new friend was not long in getting down to cases.
"Tried brakin' on the C. and G. T., but the work was too heavy. Before that I was a plumber. But I got in bad, out yonder."
"Where?"
Out West."
"How?"
"Scabbin'."
"I guess you've done strike-breakin' then?"
"Sure. A man's got to live."
"And you ain't gun-shy of a little excitement?" Kestner laughed.
"I can eat it." Then he yawned, openly and audibly. "But what I could eat now's about ten hours' sleep."
The stranger at his side grew suddenly thoughtful.
"I'm roundin' up a bunch o' strike-breakers myself," he explained. The lowering of his voice became confidential, fraternal. "I'm lookin' for a couple o' hundred good men; and you're the style I'm after."
