Page:Sheep Limit (1928).pdf/193

 to go. "That's a purty little bunch of hay you've got. How long have you been here?"

"A little over three weeks."

Rawlins was wondering where Hewitt had come from. He couldn't recall having heard his name mentioned at Mrs. Peck's ranch, where the affairs of everybody within forty miles were discussed. He was a clean, lean man of forty or a little more, his khaki overalls inside his laced boots. He was not wearing spurs, he carried no gun, nothing but the usual little roll done up in a slicker behind his saddle.

"Looks like you're preparing to stay a while," Hewitt remarked, with apparent appreciation, looking around the place, lively interest in his keen, alert face, which was brown and bearded.

"Yes, I've homesteaded here," Rawlins replied, thinking Hewitt looked like a geology professor he used to have.

"That so?" said Hewitt. He put his hand to the cantle, twisting around in the saddle with freshened interest. "Well. Aren't you a little—that is to say a trifle—premature?"

"No, not so very. I'm the first one in here, I guess, but the country's been open to homestead a long time—ever since it was surveyed."

Hewitt shook his head in denial of that, urbane as ever, even smiling as he made the correction.

"It would be open to homestead ordinarily, but Senator Galloway has a big block of it leased from the Government. His lease has several years to run yet."

"Are you connected with Senator Galloway's—enterprise?"