“Sure, boy,” he said. Then he indicated the scene with a broad gesture of an out-flung arm. “Can you beat it? Get a look. Ther’s millions of ’em. Gee! This would be one hell of a swell place to fix a homestead.”
“That’s what I’ve decided to do.”
Pryse smiled as the other swung round and stared at him. Then he sat down on the log, and Dan Quinlan took up his position beside him.
Pryse poured out a tot of the Rye and offered it to his benefactor. But the man thrust it aside.
“Get to it yourself, boy,” he said, with a rough laugh. “I take a deal too much of that belly-wash. It’s a curse on me. You’re needing it. I guess you’re needing it bad. Drink up, boy, and set the rest aside. One’s all you need now to set life into your tired grey head. Two would set you crazy. And you don’t need any craziness just now. What d’you mean about that—homestead?”
Pryse drank down the raw Rye, and the scorch of the spirit made him gasp. Then he carefully re-corked the bottle, and set it on the ground beside him, and sat gazing into the fire. Dan Quinlan lit his pipe, and diving into a pocket, produced a second. He held it out.
“It’s a new one,” he said. “I went right into Hartspool for it. Smoke.”
Pryse accepted the thoughtful present, and the warming spirit brightened his eyes.
“Say,” he ejaculated, with sudden urgency, “I’m going to talk a whole long piece, Dan. Will you listen while I roast these trout over the fire? It’s all I’ve got to offer you for feed. There’s a big bunch of them, and they’ve just come out of the creek. Will you share? And I’ll boil up some of the tea you’ve brought me. And there’s the sugar. I haven’t tasted sugar for days. Not since I finished the last you brought me.”
Dan nodded his rough head.