"Morning, Lon."
"You're a long way from your forge."
"Third gate's hinge," I said, and held up the hammer. "Railroad wants it fixed before the cars come."
"That's the third gate," Prather said, and pointed with his chin at the chute fifty yards down the line, "and you're settin' on the fence of a Double Box pen. Lookin' at brands, looks like."
"Looking at cattle," I said. "It's a fine morning for it."
He did not say anything for a while. One of his riders went by at a lope in the next alley, yelling at a steer that had gotten through a gate, and Prather watched him go and then looked back at me.
"Boss sets a great deal of store by you," he said. "Always has. Says you're the best smith between Omaha and Salt Lake. Says there ain't another man in the territory he'd trust with his horse's feet." He leaned on his saddle horn. "I've always said there's a difference between trustin' a man with a horse's feet and trustin' him with anything else. But the boss don't listen to me."