“You go to hell!” spluttered the wrathful ancient. “You goshly-gorful old ranch hand! That’s what you are!”
Ross laughed, swung about to his flivver, and cranked up. He turned the car and vanished amid a trail of dust, leaving the ancient to sputter senile threats and curses. He accounted himself well rid of that old vagabond, in which he was quite right.
It was late in the afternoon when Ross got home; the trail to his cañon from the county road was wretchedly rough. As he drove, he began to blame himself for having left Thady Shea all alone, throughout the day from sunrise to sunset, with that wicker demijohn. He began to think that he had stacked the cards too heavily. He began to think that his desire to test Thady Shea had been a mite too strong.
He drove up to the shed, seeing no sign of his guest. The house, too, was deserted. Ross went straight to the corner cupboard and jerked open the door. The clean wicker demijohn was gone. It was not in the house.
“Hell’s bells!” quoth Ross, savagely.
He strode outside and scanned the vicinity. Nothing was in sight. The team was gone. He walked up the cañon, seeing that the lower flat was empty of life. At the turn he came in sight of the upper flat, and paused.
The team was there; Thady Shea had been plowing. Thady Shea was there, too, but he was not plowing. He was standing at one corner of the flat beside a pile of brush. He was lifting something in his hand. It was the wicker demijohn. He set it on his arm and laid the mouth to his lips. Ross could see him drink, gulpingly. He drank long, avidly, until Ross swore in blank amazement that a man could drink thus; he drank as the sun-cracked earth drinks water.
Ross strode forward. Thady Shea turned to meet him.
“Hello, Ross! I was just knocking off work for the day. Drink?”
Ross took the demijohn. He looked at Thady Shea with hard, bitter cold eyes. His eyes softened as he remembered his misgivings. After all, was it not his own fault? He lifted the demijohn on his arm and laid the mouth to his lips.