Kirk nodded and dug into the hard soil with the heel of his boot.
“I don’t love ’em,” he admitted softly, shaking his head. “Nobody does, I guess. Still—” Kirk lifted his head and gazed off across the tangle of brush—“still, they have made it possible for me to live out here.”
“Oh,” softly.
“If it wasn’t for the sheep I would probably have to live in a city.”
Skeeter cleared his throat softly.
“Well, under them circumstances sheep ain’t so danged bad, I reckon. Feller does feel better, livin’ out here in the old hills. Mebbe I’d herd sheep, too.”
“Yes, you’d do anything to keep living.”
“I come danged near shufflin’ off a while ago,” reminded Skeeter seriously. “That bronc was worth a lot t’ me.”
The cough came again and occupied Kirk’s attention for a period.
“I’m awful sorry about the horse,” he panted hoarsely. “I thought you might be gunning for me, and I wanted to beat you to it.”