“T. and B.’s good enough for me,” said Grey, with a smile. “No, I won’t experiment.”
Smith held his pouch towards Chillingwood.
“Can I?”
Robb shook his head with a doubtful smile.
“Guess not, thanks. What’s good enough for my chief is good enough for me.”
The trapper slowly unfolded an antelope hide pouch of native workmanship. He emptied out a little pile of greenish-brown flakes into the palm of his hand. It was curious, dusty-looking stuff, suggestive of discoloured bran. This he poured into the bowl of a well-worn briar, the mouthpiece of which he carefully and with accuracy adjusted into the corner of his mouth.
“If you ever chance to have the experience I have had in these mountains, gentlemen,” he then went on slowly, as gathering into the palm of his hand a red-hot cinder from the stove he tossed it to and fro until it lodged on the bowl of his pipe, “I think you’ll find the use of the weed which grows on this hillside,” with a jerk of his head upwards to indicate the bush which flourished in that direction, “has its advantages.”
“Maybe,” said Grey contemptuously.
“I doubt it,” said Robb, with a pleasant smile.
The lean man knocked the cinder from his pipe and emitted a cloud of pungent smoke from between his lips. The others had lit up. But the odour of the trapper’s weed quickly dominated the atmosphere. He talked rapidly now.