“I’m three years younger than you are, Whisperin’.”
“To hear you tell it—yeah. But yo’re too old, Sailor. We’ve got to look at this straight. There’s no jobs for us in this country. I might git on as a cook on some outfit—if they needed one awful bad. I can’t ride no more. You can’t even cook. Dang it, Sailor, we’re jist a couple of old derelicts. If we’d fought in the wars, instead of hidin’ in the brush, we could go to a home for soldiers.”
“I never hid in no brush, dang yuh! I was too young to go to war.”
“I wasn’t speakin’ about the Rev’lutionary War, Sailor.”
“Oh! Well, I fought Injuns. Me and them Apaches⸺”
“Uncle Sam ain’t offerin’ a home to fellers who fought to save their own lives.”
“I’m not askin’ him for a home, dang it!”
“You probably will be.”
Len came and sat down in the doorway. His gray-green eyes were bloodshot this morning and his hair hadn’t been combed.
“We’ll go in this afternoon, boys,” he said slowly. “I’ll get the money from Baggs. Don’t get drunk and act foolish. Save yore money this time.”