"The children make me peevish," he said, and began to roll a cigarette in his fingers. "Wall, do you remember, Jim? I allowed we'd be better friends when we met again."
Jim looked round sharp and sat there studying McCalmont. He didn't look bad or dangerous, but just a middle-aged cattle-man of the old long-horn desert breed. Our folks are rough and homely; we've got a hard name, too, but we stay alive in a country which kills off all but the fighters. McCalmont had a cool blue eye, humorous and kind, and grey hair straggling down over a face that was tanned to leather. The stiff-brimmed cowboy hat was jammed on the back of his head, the white silk handkerchief hung loose about his shoulders. He wore a grey army shirt, blue overalls, stuffed anyhow into his boots, and a loose belt of cartridges, slinging the Colt revolver on his hip. Somehow the youngster felt drawn to him, knowing he'd found a friend of the kind that lasts.
"And you were that sky-scout?" says he.
"A most unworthy shepherd! Jest you look at my sheep," says McCalmont.
Jim asked how long it was since they met that day on the range.
"It seems a year to you, eh, lad? That was six days ago, the way I reckon time."
"So much has happened—sir—can it be less than a week? I was only a boy then—and Curly——"
"My son has struck you serious."
"She has told me everything, sir."
"Yo' goin' to remember to speak of Curly as a boy. He is allooded to as a boy, or I get hawstile. You understand that?"