“I’ll make it all up, Skelton,” blurted Lonesome. “I sure will. I’ll give him half of my own stock.”
“Have you got any stock?” asked Hashknife.
Lonesome stared at the three men and turned away.
“I dunno,” he said dully. “I ain’t got no idea how I stand. Mebbe I’ve got a thousand head of cows, and if I have, I’d give ’em all for just one drink of liquor.”
Skelton dug under his bunk and drew out a jug and handed it to Lonesome.
“I reckon you need a shot, Lonesome. If you’re goin’ to do a good job of quittin’, you’ve got to—what’sa matter?”
Lonesome turned and walked wearily to the door.
“I ain’t drinkin’ nothin’, Skelton—not today. I’ve had my share.”
Skelton shook his head wonderingly and replaced the jug, while Hashknife went to Lonesome and put his hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“Everybody in Caldwell thinks you’re dead, Lonesome. Mind keepin’ out of sight for a while, and let ’em go on thinkin’ that?”