“Nuthin’ doin’ in the night,” he said, in something like the tone of a disappointed pessimist.
“No.” Joe Brand did not feel a great deal like talking. Besides the nightmare depression that held him he had drunk a good deal of rye whisky overnight.
White stared out across the creek, whither his thoughts were still wandering.
“Maybe we––was scairt some,” he observed, with a hollow laugh.
“Maybe.”
Joe’s manner was discouraging.
“Gettin’ breakfast?” the other inquired presently.
“Guess so.”
And the rest of the journey to the store was made in morose silence.
Others were already astir when they reached their destination. And at some distance they beheld a small group of men clustering at one point on the veranda. But such was their mood that the matter had no interest whatever for them until they came within hailing distance. Then it was that they were both startled into new life. Then it was that all depression was swept away and active interest leapt. Then it was that sore heads and troubled thoughts gave way before an excitement almost equal to the previous day’s, only that it carried with it a hope which the latter had almost killed.