"No dog-puncher who knows what he's about travels when his quick goes dead."
"If the stuff's like lead in your bottle—" The General stopped to sample the new brew. In the pause, from the far side of the cabin Dillon spat straight and clean into the heart of the coals.
"Well, what do you do when the mercury freezes?" asked the Boy.
"Camp," said Dillon impassively, resuming his pipe.
"I suppose," the Boy went on wistfully—"I suppose you met men all the way making straight for Minóok?"
"Only on this last lap."
"They don't get far, most of 'em."
"But... but it's worth trying!" the Boy hurried to bridge the chasm.
The General lifted his right arm in the attitude of the orator about to make a telling hit, but he was hampered by having a mug at his lips. In the pause, as he stood commanding attention, at the same time that he swallowed half a pint of liquor, he gave Dillon time leisurely to get up, knock the ashes out of his pipe stick it in his belt, put a slow hand behind him towards his pistol pocket, and bring out his buckskin gold sack. Now, only Mac of the other men had ever seen a miner's purse before, but every one of the four cheechalkos knew instinctively what it was that Dillon held so carelessly. In that long, narrow bag, like the leg of a child's stocking, was the stuff they had all come seeking.
The General smacked his lips, and set down the granite cup.