All but two of the Wineglass crew were in their blankets. These two were Charlie Shaw and Bud Cole, squatting between the bed tent and the glowing pine snag, talking in undertones. They looked at this apparition, wavering on its feet. He didn’t belong in either outfit.
“Hello,” Charlie greeted. “This is tough weather to be runnin’ around loose. You lost, or are you just goin’ some place?”
“Both, I guess. What outfit is this?”
“The Wineglass from Lonesome Prairie,” Charlie told him. “Come on up to the fire.”
They rose from their boot heels with an exclamation. The man took a step, swayed, moved uncertainly.
“Don’t be scared,” Charlie said kindly. It struck him that this old fellow was furtive—and he had seen men on the dodge, edging cautiously into a camp for food and shelter.
“I ain’t scared,” the man mumbled, in little more than a whisper. “I’m played out, that’s all.”
“You been wanderin’ afoot in this snow?” Bud asked.
“Since last night,” he answered.
As if shelter, warmth and the presence of men jarred loose some prop which had sustained him, he put one hand to his face and lurched, and would have fallen if Bud and Charlie had not caught him. He sagged in their grip. His head dropped to his breast.