“Been here all the time?”
“Have I been here?—yes.”
“'Lone?”
“With you. How is your chest? Does it hurt you still when you breathe?”
The sick man filled his lungs experimentally. “Something busted inside, I guess,” he panted. “'Tain't no killing matter, though.”
Nourishment, in a tin cup, warm from the fire was offered him, refused with a gesture, and firmly urged upon him. This necessitated another rest. It was long before he spoke again—out of some remoter train of thought apparently.
“Family all in New York?”
“My family? They were at Bisuka when I left them.”
“You don't live West!”
“No. I was born in the West, though. Idaho is my native state.”