The old man’s teeth set up a sudden chatter.
“Here, throw this hot coffee into you.” Charlie passed him the cup.
He gulped it in two swallows.
“Thank you all,” he said. “That sure tasted good.”
“You’re all wet,” Bill said. “Drink some more coffee an’ peel off your clothes. I’ll rustle you dry ones outa my war bag.”
He went off to the bed tent. In a minute, when the old man had finished his second cup of coffee and accepted the makings of a cigarette, and the cook was setting out food for him, Charlie and Bud withdrew. They found Mather in the glow of the burning root, digging clothes out of his bag. He stamped his feet into boots, and went back to the chuck tent with an armful of clothes.
“That kid’s the original clam,” Bud Cole remarked. “He don’t never say nothin’. He’s worried. I wonder what that old hombre’s hoofin’ it forty miles from nowhere in a snowstorm for?”
“I ain’t no clairvoyant,” Charlie answered.
After a few minutes Bill joined them. He squatted on his heels, rolled a smoke, silent.
“How’s the old man?” Charlie asked.