I ride to see if horses feed quiet." "Well, come in and eat.

I cooked some peaches this morning." The youth went eagerly, his somewhat stilted English easing off into a mixture of good American slang and the Mexican dialect spoken by peons and some a grade higher up the ladder.

He was not more than seventeen, and while Johnny recalled his instructions to put any greaser on the run, he took the liberty of interpreting those instructions to please himself.
This kid was harmless enough.

He talked the range gossip that proved to Johnny's satisfaction that he was what he professed to be--a young rider for Tucker Bly, who owned the "Forty-Seven" brand that ranged just east of the Rolling R.Johnny had never seen this Tomaso--plain Tom, he called him presently--but he knew Tucker Bly; and a few leading questions served to set at rest any incipient suspicions Johnny may have had.
They were doing the same work, he and Tomaso.

The only difference was that Johnny camped alone, and Tomaso rode out from the Forty-Seven ranch every day, taking whatever direction Tucker Bly might choose for him.