“Years and years ago,” laughed Skeeter; “but I’m sure paralyzed now. Mr. Kales, I wish you’d watch where yo’re puttin’ yore feet. I don’t mind walkin’ on m’ feet, but I hate like —— t’ have you doin’ it.”
From afar came the sound of firing as the Tin Cup gang rounded up and stampeded the sheep. Skeeter stopped and listened for a moment and hurried on.
“I’m scared,” admitted Skeeter. “Scared that somethin’ is happenin’ to the pals.”
“Who are the pals?” panted Mrs. Porter.
“Man and his wife. He’s sick and she’s stickin’ to him. Sheep-herder.”
Skeeter shifted his burden slightly.
“They ain’t jist husband and wife—they’re pals—bunkies,” he went on. “Sabe what I mean, Mrs. Porter?”
“I think so, Skeeter Bill.”
“Dangdest thing I ever seen,” said Skeeter. “Kinda gives a feller a new idea of a wife. ’F a feller had a wife that was a pal t’ him— Say, by cripes, we found the shack!”
Just beyond them loomed the outlines of the little sheep cabin, but without a light showing.