Beasley Melford laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh.
“Guess it makes him feel good dopin’ out stuff to us same as if we was bums,” he said harshly.
“Shut up!” cried a voice from a remote corner. Buck looked over and saw a lean, dark man hugging his knees and smoking a well-burnt briar pipe. The same voice went on: “Guess you’d sicken most anybody, Beasley. You got a mean mind. Guess the Padre’s a hell of a bully feller.”
“He sure is,” said Montana Ike, lolling over on to his side and pushing his canvas kit-bag into a more comfortable position. “You was sayin’ there was vittles comin’ along, Buck? Guess ther’ ain’t no ‘chawin’’ now?”
“Tobacco, sure,” responded Buck with a smile.
One by one the men sat up on their frowsy blankets. The thought of provisions seemed to have roused them from their lethargy. Buck’s eyes wandered over the faces peering at him out of the murky shadows. The squalor of the hut was painful, and, with the knowledge that help was at hand, the sight struck him even more forcibly.
“Quit work?” he asked a moment later, in his abrupt fashion.
Somebody laughed.
Buck looked round for an answer. And again his eyes caught the steely, ironical gleam in the man Beasley’s.