I did know, too, far as that's concerned, and I thought more of Old Man Wright then than I ever did. Of course it's hard for men to talk much out on the range, and we didn't talk. We only set for quite a while, with our knees up, breaking sticks and looking off at the Gunsight Gap, on top of the range—just as if we hadn't saw it there any day these past forty years.
I was plenty scared about this new move and so was he. It's just like riding into a ford where the water is stained with snow or mud and running high, and where there ain't no low bank on the other side. You don't know how it is, but you have to chance it. It looked bad to me and it did to him; but we had rid into such places before together and we both knew we had to do it now.
"Colonel," says I at last to him, "I don't like it none, but I got to go through with you if you want me to."
He sort of hit the side of my knee with the back of his hand, like he said: "It's a trade." And it was a trade.
That's how come us to move from Wyoming to Chicago, looking for some of them Better Things.
II - Where We Threw In
"Well, Curly," says Old Man Wright to me one day a couple of months after we had our first talk, "I done it!"
"You sold her?" says I.
"Yes," says he.