The trey of spades

“This looks like the place, ‘Sleepy.’ In all my years, this is the first time I ever seen just the place to settle down. Look at the wide places, cowboy. Away over there is the river, cuttin’ almost down the center of it. Them green cañons are showing plenty of water, and look at the feed.”

“Hashknife” Hartley lifted his lean head, as he swung one long arm in an arc, encompassing the length and breadth of the Thunder rangeland. Sleepy Stevens, his companion, humped in his saddle, rolling a cigarette.

“Feast yore eyes upon her, cowboy,” urged Hashknife seriously. “She’s the range of our dreams. No fences and danged few ranches. If it was made to order it couldn’t hit closer to what we’ve wanted.”

“Gimme a match,” said Sleepy indifferently.

Hashknife fumbled for a match, but did not take his eyes off the panorama before him. Behind them and on both sides stretched the Thunder Mountains, half-encompassing a rolling range that only ended in a hazy distance--hundreds of square miles of rolling hills, small valleys, dotted with cottonwoods and live-oaks; an ideal cattle range. Far away, in the middle distance, the Bitter River pursued its irregular course; a green thread that split the land in twain.

“Yuh ought to give me a match with a head on it,” complained Sleepy. Hashknife turned in his saddle and squinted at him. There was a hint of reproach in Hashknife’s thin face, as he produced another match and handed it to Sleepy.

They were unlike, these two. Hashknife was well over six feet in height, bony, angular, with long arms and generous-sized feet. His face was bony, nose long, mouth large. The hair that showed from under his back-tilted sombrero was of the neutral shade. His eyes were gray-blue and set in a network of wrinkles.

Sleepy was of medium height, rather heavy of build. His face was blocky, and wrinkled from the weather and an over-developed sense of humor. Both men were dressed in well-worn cowboy clothes. Their horses looked weary, thankful for the siesta in the shade of the cliffs behind them.

“They don’t put enough ---- on their matches these days,” complained Sleepy as he barely managed to ignite his cigarette and puffed contentedly.

“Yuh ought to be glad we can find somethin’ without too much ---- on it,” grinned Hashknife, turning back to his survey of the landscape.

“I reckon that’s right,” agreed Sleepy. “Kinda pretty view from here, ain’t it?”

“Kinda!” Hashknife snorted aloud and turned his head. “My gosh, that’s the place we’ve been dreamin’ about----”

“Who’s been dreamin’ about?” demanded Sleepy indignantly. “Don’tcha mix me up in that dream, Hashknife. The only ones I ever have are a dream about me bein’ at a dance without nothin’ on but a pair of socks. Huh! By golly, I’m the only danged view that ever shows up in my dreams.”

“You ain’t got no imagination, Sleepy.”

“The ---- I ain’t! Don’t it take imagination to think yo’re at a dance without nothin’ on but----”

“I don’t mean that kind of imagination, Sleepy.”

“Oh, you mean the mild kind, eh? Well, I dunno about me. Prob’ly I do go a little too strong. The last dream I had----”

“Sleepy, I feel that this is the place we’ve hankered for. Right here is the place where we can speak about, when folks asks us where our home is. There’s peace down there, cowboy.”

Hashknife’s eyes were soft and speculative as he turned to Sleepy and motioned toward the country below them.