The ranch seemed deserted, though of course it was late and he knew that every one would be in bed. He found a lantern, put Coaley into the box stall again, and spent a long time rubbing him down and carrying him fresh hay and water. He went up then and roused Sam Pretty Cow, who was sleeping in the small cabin he had elected to make his own private habitation on the ranch. Sam Pretty Cow told him that no one had come home as yet.
“Two, three days, I dunno. Mebby Tom comes then,” he hazarded, blinking at Lance. “This too quick. Nobody comes back same day, you bet.”
Lance stood looking down at him, scowling thoughtfully. “Sam, you’ve been a long time with the outfit. You’ve been a good man. You aren’t crippled up––and you’re the best rider of the bunch of us. Why don’t you go out any more?”
Sam lighted a cigarette, blew out the blazing match and laid the burnt stub carefully on a box. He smoked stolidly, gazing at the dingy wall before him.
“Bust them bronks in the corral,” he said at last, grinning briefly. “You stay long, you see me ride. Uh-huh––yo’ bet.”
“Well, yes. That’s all right. But why don’t you go with the outfit?” Lance leaned against the wall, arms folded, studying him. It was almost hopeless, trying to get anything out of Sam Pretty Cow; still, Lance tried it.
Sam Pretty Cow looked up at him, looked down at his bare feet that he had swung out of bed when Lance wakened him.
“Uh-huh. That’s why. That all right, I’m go. That ain’t all right, I’m don’ go. You bet.”
Lance tap-tapped his right arm with the fingers of his left hand, chewed his lip and looked at Sam Pretty Cow.