“That’s what I’m asking myself,” replied Edwards. He slipped from his horse and crouched close to the rock. “My blood is mostly ditch-water, seems like. The wind blows right through me.”
“How do you happen to be reduced to herding sheep? You look like a man who has seen better days.”
Edwards, chafing his thin fingers to warm them, made reluctant answer: “It’s a long story, Mr. Ranger, and it concerns a whole lot of other people—some of them decent folks—so I’d rather not go into it.”
“John Barleycorn was involved, I reckon.”
“Sure thing—he’s generally always in it.”
“You’d better take my gloves—it’s likely to snow in half an hour. Go ahead—I’m a younger man than you are.”
The other made a decent show of resistance, but finally accepted the offer, saying: “You certainly are white to me. I want to apologize for making that attempt to sneak away that night—I had a powerful good reason for not staying any longer.”
Ross smiled a little. “You showed bad judgment—as it turned out.”
“I sure did. That girl can shoot. Her gun was steady as a door-knob. She filled the door. Where did she learn to hold a gun like that?”
“Her father taught her, so she said.”