He slips his saddle off, turns his bronc into the corral, leans against the fence and cuts loose the granddaddy of all sighs. There ain’t many men that you can hear sigh at pointblank range for a .30-30, but you could with Muley. It was like releasing the air on a freight train.
I wanders down there and passes the time of day with him, but he don’t respond. He exhausts deep into his soul once more, and hangs up his saddle.
“Some of your relatives die, Muley?” I asks.
“Hello, Hen,” says he, sad-like, “I ain’t got no relatives—except one aunt. I don’t know whether she’s alive or not.”
“Name of Bowles?”
“Nope. Name’s Allender. Maw’s name was Allender, and that’s why I was named Lemule Allender, and—what do you want to know for?”
“You sighed a couple of times,” I reminds him, and he nods and looks off across the range.
“Henry, how can I make some money? Regular money. I can’t get along on forty a month—no more.”
“You aim to marry Susie Abernathy?” I asks.
Muley digs a little trench with the toe of his boot, and shakes his head, sad-like—