"I'm getting used to my new face," he said, "and I'm getting used to smoking again. Got to. Nothing but a smoke will help a fellow at times. What business is this you're in here?"
"Cow-punching—riding out after cattle."
"Hard to learn?"
"Easy for a sailor. I'm only hanging on until pay-day, then I make for 'Frisco to ship."
"And someone will take your place, I suppose. I'll work for my grub if you'll break me in so that I can get the job. I'm through with going to sea."
"Certainly. All I need is to tell the boss. I've an extra saddle."
So I tutored him in the tricks of cow-punching, and found him an apt pupil. But he was heavy and depressed, seeming to be burdened with some terrible experience, or memory, that he was trying to shake off. It was not until the evening before my departure, when I had secured him the job and we sat smoking before the mesquite-root fire, that he took me into his confidence. The friendly rat had again appeared, and he sprang up, backed away, and sat down again, trembling violently.
"It was that rat that brought you to yourself that evening," I ventured. "Rats must have had something to do with your past life."
"Right, they did," he answered, puffing fiercely. "I didn't know you had rats here, though."
"A whole herd of them under the floor. But they're harmless. I found them good company."