Even the reservation was changed a little.

He threw away that cigarette and lighted another, and turned aggrievedly upon a dried little man who came up with the open expectation of using the truck upon which Luck was sitting uncomfortably.

There was the squint of long looking against sun and wind at a far skyline in the dried little man's face.

There was a certain bow in his legs, and there were various other signs which Luck read instinctively as he got up.

He smiled his smile, and the dried little man grinned back companionably.
"Say, old-timer, what's gone with all the cattle and all the punchers ?" Luck demanded with a mild querulousness.
The dried little man straightened from the truck handles and regarded Luck strangely.
"My gorry, son, plumb hazed off'n this section the earth, I reckon.
Farmers and punchers, they don't mix no better'n sheep and cattle.