“Yes, my little mare was killed in the roundup.”
“That’s more trouble. Wall, never mind, set down and thaw out while I git somethin’ ready to comfort yer insides. Yer hungry, I reckon.”
“Frettin’, I warrant. Stop it, boy, stop it. We can’t allus hev our way in this world. If we did, we’d get so cranky people couldn’t live with us.”
He stirred the coals to warm up the coffee, then he cut some slices from a haunch of roasted venison and put these with bread and butter on the rustic table.
“Here, set up to this and pitch in. You’ll feel better after you git a cup o’ this smoking coffee down. This fall rain soaks to the bones.”
“I’m hungrier than I thought,” said Fred, as he began to eat. “This venison is fine.”
“That’s a piece o’ the yearlin’ buck I got the other day—shot him right from the door. It seemed kind o’ mean to kill him, he looked so perty; but I was needin’ the meat; he’s as fat as a butter ball; that’s the kind that makes good eatin’.”
“Do they often come close to your cabin?”
“I see ’em every few days. This storm will bring a herd o’ ’em down, I reckon. They winter in the foothills, you know. Elk and moose like to browse on the willows along the creeks.”