“One must eat, Mr. Reber. And you have paid me better than I could get any other place.”
“You’ve earned it, June. I wondered how they’d take yore kind of music. But cowboys are sentimental. I’ve seen ’em cry over yore music. Give the average cowboy a few drinks and he’ll cry over ‘Home Sweet Home’. Yes, they will, June. Lot’s of ’em never had a regular home; lots of ’em were kicked out early in life—but they’ll cry, just the same.”
“I suppose,” said June, nodding.
“And you never asked me anythin’ about Buck Priest. That night he called me a dirty cow thief, didn’t he?”
Park Reber smiled bitterly.
“Mebbe Buck was drunk. He’s hated me for years, June. Oh, I’m no angel. I tried to run Buck out of this country. He’s a fighter. He’s not sorry he shot me, but sorry he didn’t kill me.”
“Why didn’t you have him arrested, Mr. Reber?”
“Arrested? For shootin’ me? Why, no, June, it was an even break. My shoulder-holster—well, it isn’t a fast draw. I’d have killed him. Oh, he hates me! Funny, isn’t it, June? We used to be pardners—me and Buck.
“And it was all over a woman—a woman like you, June. She was like you in lots of ways, I think. The valley wasn’t what it is now. Tomahawk was a tradin’ post. This girl came here with her family in a covered wagon. I was in the south end of the valley at that time, where me and Buck had a small herd of cattle. Buck was here at the post, and met her.
“He was two days late bringing in supplies, and when he came he told me about her. I told him he was a fool to even think of a girl. It was a bad country to bring a girl into. The Cheyennes were unfriendly then, and there were a lot of them in the valley. They stole cattle and horses. It kept us busy protectin’ our herds.