HE ARRIVES TO VISIT THE JOHNSONS
Shortredge arrived in a buckboard, driven by Jeff Hardin, toward the close of a July day. They were visible a mile off, but Johnson did not step down from the porch until they pulled up. Then he went slowly to meet them. It took a long time for Buffalo to get clear of the conveyance, he was so shaky and uncertain on his legs.
"Hello, Lafe."
"Hello, Buf'lo."
They clasped hands and regarded each other uncomfortably. Then Shortredge paid the driver and the two friends walked to the porch, where Hetty was waiting to welcome the visitor. Such was the greeting between them after five years.
"Poor feller," said Johnson, when they had retired that night. "He's looking worse'n a ghost."
"Oh, Lafe, when I look at him I want to cry. To think we ever—"
"He was the stoutest man I ever set eyes on, once, ol' Buf'lo was. But he never would take no care of himself. That, and ridin' broncs, it sort of stove him all up, Hetty. I'm sure glad I done asked him here."
A tent was reared on the knoll under the cottonwood, and in it Jim slept. He scorned the cot which Johnson had procured and spread his blankets on the ground, as had been his wont in the days of his strength. There were several spare saddlers, and when he was feeling especially strong, Buffalo would accompany Lafe on some of his rides, but that happened very seldom. They never spoke much when together, which was as it had always been, but seemed quite satisfied to jog along side by side. At long intervals one would comment on the condition of the cattle they passed.
Within two weeks the invalid began to gain in weight. By that time he and Lafe, Jr., were staunch friends. For hours together he would build dirt forts under the boy's direction, never seeming to tire of the changes in ground plan that the child's whims demanded. And the toys he contrived to fashion, with no other tools than a jackknife, a stick and handkerchief! Yet his playmate imposed reservations on their companionship which sorely puzzled Lafe, Jr. For one thing, he would never dandle the boy on his knee, as his father did, and he laughingly dissuaded him from the rough-and-tumble tests of strength and skill in which the boy was accustomed to imitate a bull, or an outlaw steer, or some equally impulsive creature. Then, too, Hetty had become peculiarly insistent on the wording of her son's nightly supplications. Indeed, Shortredge's name became the feature of his prayer.
"You're looking a heap better, Buf'lo," Johnson told him. It was the first time he had referred directly to Shortredge's health.
"Shore. I feel a heap better too, Lafe. The cough don't bother me much at all now. But I done bust a valve or something—run away to your ma, Lafe, boy—I forget what the doc said now, for certain"—Jim was staring off to the horizon—"it's liable to hit me sudden."
"Hell, no! Doctors don't know nothing."
"Shore not," Buffalo agreed, with a short laugh. "Don't you say nothing to Hetty, Lafe. I'll face the music."
Of nights they would sit on the porch—Buffalo, Hetty and Lafe—the child scuffling with the dog at their feet, in the last spasmodic energy that foreruns infantile sleep. And they would watch the light fade in the Cañon. The cows came slowly to water, calling one to the other. There were soft creepings amid the leaves. A mocking-bird sang in a hackberry tree. It was all very peaceful.
"You can just make out the top of The Hatter from here, Lafe. Ever notice?" Jim asked.
"You can see him mighty plain sometimes, Buf'lo. Do you mind how we used to wonder what was on top of that ol' mountain, me and you? He looks so ragged up there. That was when you were punching on the Lazy L."
"I reckon I do. I've always sort of hankered to climb to the top of The Hatter," Buffalo went on—"all my life I have. But I never did. You-all know how that is. They tell me you can see for ninety miles off'n the peak. It must be right pretty."
"We'll go some day," said Johnson.
Hetty caught her breath and glanced quickly at the visitor, but both men appeared perfectly matter-of-fact. She said: "Weren't you sick last night, Mr. Buf'lo? I thought I heard you."
"Yes, ma'am. Nothing to speak of. Just a li'l spell. Sometimes they hit me and then ag'in they don't."
It was dry the next six weeks. It was also scorching hot. The country began to look wan, then lifeless. On a night in early October a rider came to Johnson's door with word from Horne that the range was on fire. A blaze eight miles wide was sweeping the far shoulder of The Hatter. The messenger delivered this information in a subdued, expressionless voice, sitting his foaming horse in front of the porch, to Lafe inside the house.