Bill shrugged gloomily.
“Nothing,” he said. “It’s me—again.” Then he added, still more gloomily, “Pete’s one of the whisky gang, and—I’m Charlie’s brother. Say,” he finished up with a ponderous sigh. “I’ve mussed things—surely.”
“I’m sorry for that scrap, Bill.”
Charlie Bryant was leaning against a veranda post with his hands in his pockets, and his gaze, as usual, fixed on the far side of the valley. Bill completely filled a chair, where he basked in the evening sunlight.
“So am I—now, Charlie.”
The big man’s agreement brought the other’s eyes to his battered face.
“Why?” he demanded quickly.
Bill looked up into the dark eyes above him, and his own were full of concern.
“Why? Is there need to ask that?”