It was a leave of absence, à la red tape, granted to one, William Magee. Homestead entry—Serial No. 56943J, et cetera.
When he had read it he put it in his pocket.
“Well, Pinhead,” he spoke, “it’s you an’ me off to see the old boys again. We’re going back to the old outfit, where they raise real cattle. Then we’ll come back to take care of Holman.”
II
Billy Magee was coming home.
During the five months that had elapsed he had picked up enough shekels to last him through another seven months of vigil. He had bought groceries, tobacco, magazines and a ukulele; and as soon as he could get a wagon he would hitch up and go for his provender. In the meantime he was bound for his homestead.
Billy was a musical cuss; that’s why he had bought the ukulele. As he loped along on the patient Pinhead he warbled the air full of music; it was melody, sweet and rich and tuned to the joy of home: for that was his nature—and the why of the homestead—just a place that he could call his own and a place where he could hang his hat.
“If we only had a wife,” he confided to Pinhead, “we’d make this little old homestead a place worth while.”
He had come up through the sagebrush; at the last turn below the knoll he came into view of the side of the house; and he stopped.
“Well, I’ll be dog-goned!” exclaimed Billy Magee.