When the table was cleared and Hank set about washing the dishes, Casey picked up a grimy dish towel branded black in places where it had rubbed sooty kettles, and grinned cheerfully at Paw while he dried a tin plate.

Paw eyed him dubiously over a stinking pipe, spat reflectively into the woodbox and crossed his legs the other way, loosely swinging an ill-shod foot.
"Y'ain't told us yet what brung yuh up on the butte," Paw observed suddenly.

"Yuh wa'n't lost--yuh ain't got the mark uh no tenderfoot.
What was yuh doin' up in that tree ?" "Mebbe I mighta been huntin' mountain sheep," Casey retorted calmly.
"Huntin' mountain sheep up a tree is a new one," tittered Hank.

"Wish you'd give me a swaller uh that brand.

Must have a kick like a brindle mule." "More likely 'White Mule.'" Casey cocked a knowing eye at Hank.