"I'm sorry," Grey faltered, for the man's impressive manner was affecting him more than ordinary.
"That's all right, pardner. Don't ye worry one mite. Ye axed a fair question. But, my God! how kin I answer? Would I like to have a wife? Would I be happier? Am I happy now, d'ye think? Am I happy wanderin' out on the hills all by meself, an' comin' back to this lonely cabin, with never a face to greet me, an' never a word of welcome? Then, when I'm under the weather, an' somewhat petered out, to lie all day long in this shack with never a gentle voice to ax how I am, no one to do fer me, an' no one to care whether I live or die—d'ye think that is happiness? Young man, git a home, an' git it as soon as possible. Buckskin Dan's been over the trail afore ye, an' he knows a thing or two."
"I'm afraid it's too late," Grey sadly replied.
Dan looked keenly at his companion as if trying to read the purport of his words.
"D'ye mean to tell me," he asked, "that you too have lost?"
"That's about it."
"Dead?"
"No, and yes."
"Ah, livin' yit, then?"