The Friar didn’t work off any solemn stuff on me, nor he didn’t try to be funny; he just turned himself into a sun-glass, an’ focused enough sunshine on to me to warm me up without any risk of blisterin’. I got to know him even better those days than I had before. His hair was gettin’ a bit frosty at the temples; but aside from this, he hadn’t aged none since the first day I had seen him. He was like some big tree growin’ all by itself. Every year it seems a little ruggeder, every year it seems to offer a little roomier shade; but the wind and the rain and the hot sun don’t seem to make it grow old. They only seem to make it take a deeper root, and throw out a wider spread o’ boughs.
He told me o’ some o’ the scraps between the cattle men an’ the sheep men—the Diamond Dot was out o’ the way of sheep at that time. Then I began to take a little more interest in things, an’ after takin’ note for a day or so, I prophesied a dry summer; and this brought us around to Olaf.
The Friar warmed up at mention of him. He said ’at he had never seen a match turn out better ’n Olaf’s. He said Kit had just what Olaf lacked, an’ Olaf had just what Kit lacked, an’ their boy was just about the finest kid he knew of anywhere. We decided to head up their way an’ pay a visit.
As we rode along we took notice of the way things were changin’. We passed several sheep wagons, five or six irrigation ditches, an’ here and there, we found men who put more faith in alfalfa ’n they did in stock. The Friar had been well to the north when I happened upon him, and we traveled a sight o’ country before we reached our destination. Everywhere folks knew him, an’ he knew them; and when I saw their faces light up at sight of him, I had to admit that he had done the right thing in stickin’.
Mostly he sang the “Art thou weary,” one for his marchin’ song, now; and it got into my blood and did a lot to healthen me up again. I can’t rightly say ’at I ever got religion; but more ’n once religion has got me an’ lifted me up like the Crazy Water in flood, bearin’ me on over rocks an’ through whirlpools, an’ showin’ me what a weak, useless thing I was at the best. The’s somethin’ inside me ’at allus responded to the Friar’s music, an’ made me willin’ to sweep on over the edge o’ the world with him; but when he tried to reason out religion to me, I have to own up ’at the’ was a lot of it I couldn’t see into.
We passed Skelty’s old place on our way in, an’ found a red-eyed, black-headed man runnin’ it. His name was Maxwell, but they still called the place Skelty’s. We went in an’ had dinner, an’ found five or six Cross-branders there. They were doin’ plenty o’ drinkin’ an’ crackin’ idiotic jokes with the girls; but they nodded friendly enough to us, an’ we nodded back.
As soon as we finished, the Friar went outside for his smoke; but I leaned back right where I was for mine. One o’ the Cross-branders, a tall, gaunt, squinty cuss by the name o’ Dixon, was sittin’ near me, and presently he turned an’ sez: “You’re Happy Hawkins, ain’t ya?”
“That’s me,” sez I.
“Well, on the level,” sez he, “what became o’ Badger-face?”
“I’ve often wondered about that myself,” sez I.