Danny smiled. A far cry, indeed, this restaurant in Colt, Colorado, from his old haunts along the dark thoroughfare that is misnamed a lighted way! The other was talking: "We'll leave soon's we're through an' make it on up th' road to-night. It'll take us four days to get to th' ranch, probably, an' we might's well commence. Can you ride?"
Danny checked a short affirmative answer on his lips.
"I've ridden considerably," he said. "You people wouldn't call it riding, though. You'll have to teach me."
"Well, that's a good beginnin'. To be sure it is. Them as has opinions is mighty hard to teach—'cause opinions is like as not to be dead wrong."
He smeared butter on a piece of bread and poked it into his mouth. Then:
"I brought out my last hand—I come with him, I mean. Th' sheriff brought him. His saddle an' bed's over to th' stable. You can use 'em."
"Sheriff?" asked Danny. "Get into trouble?"
"Oh, a little. He's a good boy, mostly—except when he gets drinkin'."
Danny shoved his thumb down against the tines of the steel fork he held until they bent to uselessness.