"Greasewood's bad fer huntin'. Joel says it don't pay to look fer quail in the brush when he does fetch 'em down."
"Like enough. I dunno, ma'am. Reckon I've had a good many shots at the little wild critters, but they allus turn their heads so kind o' innocent like. A man as has been blowed up oncet hisself ain't much at separatin' fam'lies. But I s'pose it ain't the shootin' that's healthy, mebbe."
And so the hunting came to an end without bloodshed. Whether the doctors were right, or whether it was the mingled resin and honey of the sage and chaparral, no one cared to ask. Certain it is that the "pesterin' cough" yielded a little, and the bent form grew a trifle more erect.
"I think likely it's the lookin' up, ma'am. Mountains seem to straighten a fellow some way. 'Pears to me somebody writ oncet uv liftin' his eyes to the hills fer help. Mebbe not, though. I ain't much at recollectin' verses. Loisy's a powerful hand that way."
Perhaps the man was right. It was the looking up.
He followed Joel from the table one morning, stopping outside, his face full of patient eagerness.
"I'm gittin' right smart o' strength, neighbor. Ef there's odd jobs you could gi' me; I'd be slow, mebbe, but seems like 'most anything 'ud be better 'n settin' 'round."
Joel scratched his head reflectively. The big, brawny-handed fellow felt no disposition to smile at his weak brother.
"Fox and I wuz sayin' yesterday we'd like to put another man on the ditch; it'll be easy work fer a week, till we strike rock again. Then there's the greasewood. It's always on hand. You might take it slow, grubbin' when you wuz able. I guess we'll find you jobs enough, man."
The scarred, colorless face brightened.