“No horse? How did you get to this place?”
Morse pointed to the slumbering oxen.
The stranger again stared curiously at him. After a pause he said, with a half-pitying, half-humorous smile: “Pike—aren't you?”
Whether Morse did or did not know that this current California slang for a denizen of the bucolic West implied a certain contempt, he replied simply:
“I'm from Pike County, Mizzouri.”
“Well,” said the stranger, resuming his impatient manner, “you must beg or steal a horse from your neighbors.”
“Thar ain't any neighbor nearer than fifteen miles.”
“Then send fifteen miles! Stop.” He opened his still clinging shirt and drew out a belt pouch, which he threw to Morse. “There! there's two hundred and fifty dollars in that. Now, I want a horse. Sabe?”
“Thar ain't anyone to send,” said Morse, quietly.
“Do you mean to say you are all alone here?”