“Hello, Moran. I want to see Harmon,” he said by way of greeting. “Is he anywhere around?”
“I’m looking for him any minute,” said Moran. “Come in, Brent. Come in and wait.” The cordiality of the invitation masked Moran’s vast dislike of this man—this maltreator of horses and cows. Moran was but a visitor at the ranger’s, and Brent’s business was with his host, so he could not reveal his real feeling for the man. But toleration passed for friendship with Brent. Even in this new country peopled by hard men, no one of them accorded him a warmer regard than that—and he paid them back in kind.
Rough men whose own hands were by no means light with horses shook their heads, disgusted by each new tale that was heard on the Greybull of Brent’s frenzied atrocity when aroused by some nervous or refractory horse.
“What have you drug in now?” Brent asked as he entered, jerking his thumb at the wolf pup.
“That’s my new dog,” said Moran. “What do you think of him?’
Brent’s mouth expanded in a mirthless grin.
“He’s a sulky little brute,” he said. “Can’t you make him eat?”
