“It is a good job we have Morrison’s tarpaulin over our stuff.”
“Ugh-huh!”
Five minutes’ silence ensued, in which the grey of dawn seemed to be getting the worse of its tussle with the black of night.
“I guess the gang down town will think we’re crazy starting out to ranch in the month of November.”
“Ay!”
A splash of snow struck the bridge of Phil’s nose, spread itself and slid slowly down to the point, where it clung precariously for a moment, then lost its hold. Another––the size of a silver dollar––landed sheer on the nape of Jim’s neck just where the coat and his hair did not meet. Jim turned up his coat collar to forestall a possible repetition.
“There’s one consolation, Jim, we’ll have everything in apple-pie order by the spring-time.”
“Ya!”
A cattleman, going townward, passed.