“Do yuh see that peak ’way down there, old-timer?”
“I do. What about it, son?”
“I never climbed it in my life.”
“Well, well!” says he. “Ain’t that queer?”
We sets there like a pair of danged fools and admires that peak, which don’t mean a thing to either of us.
“You comin’?” shrills Buddy, and we turns to see Hashknife and Glory riding down the road side by side, while Buddy leans out past Hashknife and yells at us.
The old man looks at me and says—
“Son, if you’ll ride slow, mebbe I can make my mule keep up.”
I turns in my saddle, grabs that old sign and tears it off the tree, after which I throws it into the brush. Then I turns back to the old man.
“I ain’t in no hurry, ’cause I know I’ll never get there anyway,” says I.