The crude first-aid methods did their work, and Dumpy revived. When his nausea was over Crosby put him on his horse.
“José here can give you a bed to dry out in,” the customs man told him cheerily. “Here, Moran, get on José's pony. We’ll walk alongside.”
As they started slowly up the trail alongside the river Moran ranged his pony alongside Scarth’s. There was a great peace within him.
“Scarth,” he said slowly, "I was a ⸺ fool tonight. We had no business trying to fly and I—just horsed you into it because we hated each other, I guess. I—”
“’T’sall right,” Dumpy mumbled awkwardly. "I was a bigger fool than you. I didn’t have to come. And—thanks for pulling me out.”
But Moran would not be headed off. He felt that he had to talk, to explain himself to someone.
“I wasn’t myself,” he went on doggedly. “I got kind of scared of these D.H.s in that wreck, and I was so yellow I just had to fly. I was so scared I wasn’t scared, if you get me. I never flew D.H.s before, but razzing you into pretty near a sure accident was—”
“Huh?” grunted Dumpy, his eyes probing Moran’s with a curious glitter in them. “You never flew D.H.s before you came down here, you mean?”
Moran nodded.
“I hated to admit it—I wanted to stay, and so I lied and bluffed. I’m just telling you this so that you’ll know I wasn’t—I didn’t mean all that stuff. I was just cuckoo, between one thing and another.”