“Well I’ll be ⸺,” Dumpy repeated softly, as if musing to himself. He shivered, and seemed to rouse himself from reveries.
“It’s all right. Couple o' things got under my hide too, I guess.”
“Thanks. Just wanted to—sort of let bygones be bygones before I leave. That’ll be in a day or two, I guess.”
They relapsed into silence. Moran’s face was serious and composed. He did not notice the continuous looks which the impulsive younger man threw at him. He was wrapped in his thoughts. He had burned his bridges behind him in admitting his amateurishness as a flyer, he knew, and any lingering hope that he might stay on the Border was gone. Nevertheless, the bitterness had been purged from him, and he was glad.
At McMullen the next afternoon Dumpy, who had been very thoughtful all day, was first to report to Kennard. Moran changed his clothes, and went to headquarters later. The little captain had one dusty boot on the desk, and he cocked a keen, gray eye at Moran, while he dragged on a cigaret.
“I learned all I had to know from Dumpy,” he stated in his husky voice. “Still breaking up my ships, huh?”
Moran’s lips widened a trifle in reponse to the twinkle in the C.O.’s eyes.
“So you tried to put across a bluff down here, eh? What a ⸺ fool you are! Well, I’ll tell you, Moran. I sometimes like guts more than experience, and I guess if you want to stick around the Border that much, we can stand it. You can get experience here.”
Moran’s dry mouth opened, but no words came as he saluted and walked out into the flooding sunshine which had followed the storm.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 1, 1927 issue of Adventure magazine.