“Pore?” he exclaimed. Then his hands were outspread in an expressive gesture. “Say, you’ve handed ’em a prize-packet that needs to cut that darn word right out of your talk.”
He looked for reply to his challenge, but none was forthcoming. And he returned again to his happy contemplation of the fire.
Bill smoked on. But somehow there was none of the other’s easy contentment in his enjoyment. He was smoking rapidly, in the manner of a mind that was restless, of a thought unpleasantly pre-occupied. The expression of his eyes, too, was entirely different. They were plainly alert, and a light pucker of concentration had drawn his even brows together. He seemed to be listening. Nor was his listening for the sound of his companion’s voice.
At long last Chilcoot bestirred himself and knocked out his pipe, and his eyes again sought his silent partner.
“The blankets fer me,” he said, and rose to his feet. He laughed quietly. “I’ll sure dream of kids an’ things all mussed up with fool men who don’t know better.”
“Sure.” Bill nodded without turning. Then he added: “You best make ’em. I’ll sit awhile.”
Chilcoot’s gaze sharpened as he contemplated the squatting figure.
“Kind o’ feel like thinkin’ some?” he observed shrewdly.
“Maybe.”
The older man grinned.