"Say, Bud, I'll bet you a saddle to a shoe-string you never roped the man who killed Cash Hawkins at Maverick."
Clarke, who seemed deliberately to keep near Bud, gave an involuntary look of surprise at the Sheriff, but the flash of anger on Bud's blowsed, crimson face quickly cowed him.
"Oh," Bud said, lightly, "that was years and years ago, Shorty," and with his arm about him he followed the men towards their quarters.
Clarke lingered to cast a furtive glance at the hut and stables, but only for a moment, for he quickly realized that Bill was intently watching him.
Jim turned to go to the house—then paused. He could see Bill against the hitching-post tearing a straw into wisps that fluttered and fell lifeless to the ground. There was not enough breeze to carry even a strand away. He must speak to Bill, but how could he express anything of the desolation he felt at this parting of their ways.
"Bill," he began, in a low voice—and Bill, who divined the words that were about to follow, made no answer; he only held tighter to the post. He could hardly see the boss; a blur swept before his eyes. He made no effort to move; he felt he could not.
"Bill," said Jim again, as he came to him, "you must get out and look for another job." Jim clinched his hands tight as he added, "I'll be sorry to lose you, old man."
"I know you will," Bill huskily answered, as he kept his eyes lowered to the ground. Then, almost in a growl, he questioned, "And what are you going to do, boss?"
The despair of a broken man's life answered Bill as Jim said, in a level, flat tone, "Sell out—move on—begin all over again—somewhere." Then with the indomitable will that was ever a part of him, he added, more hopefully, "There must be a place for me somewhere." Mastering himself, he added, as he took Bill's knotted hand in his, "I won't offer to pay you, Bill."
And Bill, who knew by this fineness of perception on Jim's part why he loved the boss, answered, "You better not," and wrung Jim's hand in both of his.