“M-m,” the old man murmured noncommittally. “And that’s all you’ve got? And I let you come out like that?”
“Well—it was kind of warm this morning.” Hilda defended them both. “And I didn’t think about the big coat. I’m not c-cold, now, Uncle Hank—hardly a bit,” and she tried not to shiver.
It was a curious, wild, beautiful day. Up there in the north everything was a clear, strange, wicked blue, out of which there began now a keen, steady wind. Over in the east, to their right, the sun was just a blurry pink spot in the heavens.
“I’d never have come out like this—I’d have seen to things myself—if I hadn’t been sort of troubled in my mind,” said Uncle Hank. “But that’s no excuse.” He looked down at her. “Not cold? Why, Uncle Hank’s baby’s just about perished! We’ve got a blue norther—just as I was afraid—and it’ll blow for three days. If you had your coat, I’d turn round and go straight back home. But you can’t travel in that little jacket in a norther. I’ll cut in here to the left; see—” as he turned into a side trail—“it puts our backs to the wind. We’ll stop at the Bar Thirteen; you remember, honey, the Reynolds and MacQueen ranch. Frosty MacQueen, he’s that staving big feller with the tow-colored hair. You seen him at the last roundup on our place—” He checked suddenly.
Hilda shook her head. She didn’t remember any one at that roundup which ended so tragically. Hank glanced sideways at her, and went on in a cheerful, commonplace tone:
“He’s sort of a joker—Frosty is. Calls hisself
‘Frosty MacQueen
Of the Bar Thirteen.’”
“Oh!” Hilda’s big eyes danced. “That rimes—doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Uncle Hank agreed. “And if any one takes notice of it riming that-a-way, Frosty’ll say, ‘I was a poet—and didn’t know it.’ He aims to be funny.”