Weimer chuckled. Before the advent of his youthful "pard" the old man–Ross always thought of him as old despite his black hair and great strength–had not laughed in months.
"He stopped at the second station," pursued Ross.
Weimer’s face instantly darkened. "At the McKenzies’? One of dem consarned gang, he ist?"
"That’s what I want to know. It’s Lon Weston, the fellow I told you I took care of at the stage camp."
Weimer dumped ham and onions into an agateware basin, and set it on the table. "I don’t know him, I don’t. But he comes to der McKenzies, hein? Und after all dose days you spen’ mit him!" Uncle Jack frowned heavily, and, sitting down, helped himself to boiled "spuds."
"I tink I knew all dem consarned gang, but dere ist no Veston mit ’em."
Ross dragged to the little bare board table a box marked in big letters, "Ruford’s Canned Tomatoes, The Yellow Brand," and, turning the box on end, straddled it opposite Weimer.
Weimer, eating and drinking noisily, found time to ask vindictively, "Ist he for more medicine come mit you?"
Ross shook his head, and bent over his plate.
The plate was tin. The cup out of which he drank his coffee was also tin. His knife and fork were steel, and his spoon was pewter. The place of the lacking milk pitcher was usurped by a tin can of condensed milk with the top bent back and the milk dried all over the sides. But Ross ate–how he ate! Potatoes followed ham, and coffee followed potatoes, and onions followed both, and then he began all over again. Never had eating been such serious work with him. But never, also, had his muscles been so firm and hard. As for a pickaxe, it was coming to feel no heavier than the baseball bat which he had always rather scorned.