"If Wishin’ is cal’latin’ that he has enough there to last two men all winter he’s about as far off in his cal’lations as–well, as Wishin’ usually is. Wishin’ ain’t no lightnin’ cal’later on any subject, but he’s a mighty likely chap t’ have around."
"Judging from the small amount his pard ate to-day he has food enough, I should say," returned Ross, adding hastily, "but then I realize that I know nothing about it."
"Huh!" laughed Hank, "he must know that when that there young chap has been in the mountings a few days he’ll eat mulligan ’n’ spotted pup ’n’ bacon with the best of ’em. His will be a good, lively comin’ appetite–but huh! I should hate mightily t’ have t’ feed ’im. Wonder if Wishin’ has packed some bibs along ’n’ silk socks ’n’ hand-warmers! Huh!"
When Ross reëntered the cabin he found Weston staring out of the doorway, his arm stretched by his side.
"Guess you didn’t sleep much," remarked Hank noisily gathering up the dishes.
"All I wanted to," returned Weston shortly.
Hank piled the dishes into a pan and poured boiling water over them. "M-m," he soliloquized, "all the time I was lookin’ at him I was thinkin’ I’d seen that young Jones before. M-m–where, I wonder?"
No one answered, and he washed dishes in silence while Ross returned to his work and Weston lay staring out-of-doors.
The following day Ross saw his patient depart on the stage headed toward Cody, and prepared to take the next one himself in the opposite direction.
When he assisted Weston out of the door of the dugout, he knew exactly as much about him as when he followed his prostrate figure in at the same door three weeks before–and no more, unless the name be excepted.