“Oh, I know,” Hozie smiled softly. “My voice was kinda good, too. Curt Bellew said he never heard me sing so well.”
“Curt was drunk, too.”
“Thasso. Prob’ly accounts for him likin’ my voice. I’d like to sing to a sober man some day and get an honest opinion.”
“No sober man would listen to you, Hozie.”
“I s’pose not,” Uncle Hozie sighed deeply. “I suppose it’s jist sort of a drunken bond between inebriates that makes me feel sorry for Joe Rich, Emma; but I do. He looked so doggone helpless and lonesome this mornin’. No, I didn’t tell him I felt sorry. He don’t deserve sympathy.”
“He don’t deserve anythin’,” declared Aunt Emma.
“Hangin’—mebbe.”
“And you feel sorry for him?”
“I want to, Emma.” Uncle Hozie turned and looked at her. “I’ve worked with that boy a lot. Me and him have rubbed knees on some hard rides, and I kinda looked on Joe like I would on my own son. He was straight and square—until now, Emma. Mebbe,” he hesitated for a moment, “mebbe I’m feelin’ sorry for the Joe Rich of yesterday.”
“Well, that’s different, Hozie,” said Aunt Emma softly, and went back in the house. She had thought a lot of Joe Rich of yesterday, too.