“It’ll take the bad taste out of your mouth, Wolf,” he said pleasantly. “We got hours before us till the boy that runs this station pulls in for the night. The weather’s good and he won’t rush. It’s good to get a wash when you’ve mixed with dirt.”
The Wolf shook his head in refusal.
“I haven’t use fer the stuff, Sergeant, anyway. You see, I’ve been years makin’ it. I’m through with liquor now. But I got to smoke.”
Fyles made no attempt to press his offer. He just drew up a chair while the Wolf pulled out his tobacco sack. He sat down and set the glass and his flask near by on the bare floor. Then, as the other’s nimble fingers turned in his paper and twisted the ends of it, he nodded smilingly and drank down half the liquor.
“You can tell me,” he urged, as the well watered spirit warmed him. “You’re the only feller can—now.”
The Wolf inhaled. He shifted his feet, which were becoming uncomfortably hot. His gaze came round with its quaint smile.
“Are we still just men, Sergeant?”
“Surely.”
“Yes, that’s so,” the Wolf nodded. “I always feel that way with you.”
Fyles ignored the frank compliment, but it came pleasantly.