The Bad Man touched his horse with the spur. “I'm going your way,” he said.
For a time they rode on in silence. Every now and then the homesteader stole a glance of doubt and mistrust at his insistent and evidently unwelcome companion. Clearly he was far from being at ease. Finally he said:
“You weren't wanting to say anything in particular to me, were you?”
The Bad Man regarded him with mild surprise. “I reckon not,” he answered.
“I didn't know. Only you seemed so all-fired set on stickin' close to me, that's all; I didn't mean no offense.”
There was a pause. The Bad Man turned the matter slowly over in his wind. He had formed a very unfavorable opinion of the homesteader, and was wondering whether it was not a duty he owed society to tell him so frankly. He allowed a certain latitude because of the different sense of humor different men have, but there was nothing funny about the homesteader. He was just plain uncivil.
“Yes, sir-ee,” said the homesteader, “western Kansas is a hell of a place. It ain't worth the powder it would take to blow it to blazes. I wish I'd never seen it. When I made up my mind to come West, my wife sort of persuaded me to stop there. She didn't want to go any farther. Sort of wanted to keep somewhere near the folks in old Vermont. Then she was taken sick; she was ailing before we started West. Then our two boys up and died, and now the young un's down. It's mighty hard on her ma. I got a brother in Sunken River Valley, and some of the folks from back East moved out there while we were in Kansas. My wife will be mighty well satisfied when she gets among her own sort again. Women get lonely so darn easy.”
They could hear the mother singing softly to the sick child. The Bad Man jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“What's the matter?”
“Fever,” said the other laconically.