About a fortnight later, Conning Truedale stretched his long legs out toward Jim White’s roaring fire of pine knots and cones. It was a fierce and furious fire but the night was sharp and cold. There was no other light in the room than that of the fire—nor was any needed.
Jim sat by the table cleaning a gun. Truedale was taking account of himself. He held his long, brown hand up to the blaze; it was as steady as that of a statue! He had walked ten miles that day and felt exhilarated. Night brought sleep, meal time—and often in between times—brought appetite. He had made an immense gain in health.
“How long have I been here, Jim?” he asked in a slow, calm voice.
“Come Thursday, three weeks!” When Jim was most laconic he was often inwardly bursting with desire for conversation. After a silence Conning spoke again:
“Say, Jim, are there any other people in this mountain range, except you and me?”
“Ugh! just bristlin’ with folks! Getting too darned thick. That’s why I’ve got ter get into the deep woods. I just naturally hate folks except in small doses. Why”—here Jim put the gun down upon the table—“five mile back, up on Lone Dome, is the Greyson’s, and it ain’t nine miles to Jed Martin’s place. Miss Lois Ann’s is a matter o’ sixteen miles; what do you call population if them figures don’t prove it?”
Something had evidently disturbed White’s ideas of isolation and independence—it would all come out later. Truedale knew his man fairly well by that time; at least he thought he did. Again Jim took up his gun and Con thought lazily that he must get over to his shack. He occupied a small cabin—Dr. McPherson’s property for sleeping purposes.
“Do yo’ know,” Jim broke in suddenly; “yo’ mind me of a burr runnin’ wild in a flock of sheep—gatherin’ as yo’ go. Yo’ sho are a miracle! Now old Doc McPherson was like a shadder when he headed this way—but he took longer gatherin’, owin’ to age an’ natural defects o’ build. Your frame was picked right close, but a kind o’ flabby layer of gristle and fat hung ter him an’ wasn’t a good foundation to build on.”
Conning gave a delighted laugh. Once Jim White began to talk of his own volition his discourse flowed on until hunger or weariness overtook him. His silences had the same quality—it was the way Jim began that mattered.
“When I first took ter handlin’ yo’ for ole Doc McPherson, I kinder hated ter take my eyes off yo’ fearin’ yo’ might slip out, but Gawd! yo’ can grapple fo’ yo’ self now and—I plain hanker fur the sticks.”