He spent three days in the hollow, doing nothing, steeped in sunshine, lying down to rest broad awake in the tender twilight, making his peace with this place of bitter memory before bidding it good-by. His thoughts turned eastward as the planets rose. Time he was working back towards home. He would hardly get there if he started now, before his day was done. He saw his mother's grave beside his father's, in the southeast corner of the burying-ground, where the trees were thin. All who drove in through the big gate of funerals could see the tall white shafts of the Beviers and Brodericks and Van Eltens, but only those who came on foot could approach his people in the gravelly side-hill plots. “I'd like to be put there alongside the old folks in that warm south corner.” He could see their names on the plain gray slate stones, rain-stained and green with moss.
On the third May evening of his stay the horizon became a dust-cloud, the setting sun a ball of fire. Loomed the figure of a rider topping the heaving backs of his herd. All together they came lumbering down the slopes, all heading fiercely for the water. The rider plunged down a side-draw out of the main cloud. Clanking bells, shuffling hoofs, the “Whoop-ee-youp!” came fainter up the gulch. The cowboy was not pleased as he dashed by to see an earlier camp-fire smoking in the hollow. But he was less displeased, being half French, than if he had been pure-bred American.
The old man, squatting by his cooking-fire, gave him a civil nod, and he responded with a flourish of his quirt. The reek of sage smoke, the smell of dust and cattle rose rank on the cooling air. It was good to Boniface, son of the desert; it meant supper and bed, or supper and talk, for “Bonny” Maupin (“Bonny Moppin,” it went in the vernacular) would talk every other man to sleep, full or empty, with songs thrown in. To-night, however, he must talk on an empty stomach, for his chuck wagon was not in sight.
“W'ich way you travelin'?” he began, lighting up after a long pull at his flask. The old man had declined, though he looked as if he needed a drink.
“East about,” was the answer.
“Goin' far?”
“Well; summer's before us. I cal'late to keep moving till snow falls.”
“Shucks! You ain' pressed for time. Maybe you got some friend back there. Goin' back to git married?” He winked genially to point the jest and the old man smiled indulgently.
“Won't you set up and take a bite with me? You don't look to have much of a show for supper along.”
“Thanks, very much! I had bully breakfast at Rock Spring middlin' late this morning. They butcherin' at that place. Five fat hog. My chuck wagon he stay behin' for chunk of fresh pig. I won' spoil my appetide for that tenderloin. Hol' on yourself an' take supper wis me. No?—That fellah be 'long 'bout Chris'mas if he don' git los'! He always behin', pig or no pig!”