"So, home at last," says he, shaking a paw with me right hearty. "Wall, I'm sure pleased at you, Curly."
"Come to repawt," says Curly, mighty cool, but I saw that her eyes were ranging around for Jim. An olla of water hung from the eave by the door, and McCalmont passed the dipper to me first. Then while Curly drank he introduced me to Crazy Hoss, Black Stanley, and his brother Dave, who made out that they were glad to see me, though their looks said different.
Then the Captain asked me in, and we followed Curly through the mess-house door. The log walls were hung with antlers, skins lay on the floor before the big hearth at the end, and down the middle, with benches on either side, ran the long table with its oilcloth cover, the tinware set out for supper, and netting to keep off flies. That cow camp looked good to me, home-like and soothing. Off to the left of the messroom opened a little lean-to house—McCalmont's den—with a cubby hole beyond it for Curly. We found her sitting on the bunk, gun and spurs unbuckled, and holding her legs out for the old man to pull off her shaps. I unharnessed myself, and he fed me a cigar, bidding me to settle in a cow-hide chair. I felt right to home then.
"Dad," says Curly abrupt, "whar's my Jim?"
"What, you ain't met him?" says McCalmont. "He's gone to look for you."
Curly went pale under the tan, and gulped. "How long?" she asked.
"Oh, quite a time. Why, child, what's scart you? Perhaps he's with my boys at Painted Desert."
"Daddy, I've brought bad news."
"I reckon"—McCalmont spoke very low—"I been thar before a few times, and yet we've worried along. Lie down, so you'll get mo' rest."
He sat on the edge of the bunk, his hand on hers, as she lay loosing out bit by bit the story of the ransom lost, the Federal Government on the warpath, ten good men deserted. He was all crouched up when she finished, the stub of a cigarette burning his fingers, and he looked very old.