“Winter’s done come, Horace,” grunted Buck, fashioning a cigaret with numbing fingers.
“Shore has,” returned Horace, humped across his saddle horn.
“Makes a man wonder what’s become of his summer’s wages,” Buck led up to his subject.
Horace nodded a trifle absently. He was wondering how he’d get his mess wagon loaded and started for the ranch before the cook got too drunk to handle his four lines.
“How’s chances fer a winter’s job ridin’ line, Horace?” Buck tried to keep the eager tremor out of his voice.
“We’re full handed fer the winter, Bell. You should ’a’ tackled me a month ago.”
“A month ago,” said Buck Bell with grim humor, “I was fatter’n a bear in berry season. Had a thousand dollars. Had a idee I was a top hand at draw poker; The nighthawk took me fer my roll.”
This story of tough luck was not a new one to the ears of the wagon boss. It is a tale as old as the oldest cow hand. Horace, still thinking of the cook, missed the flicker of disappointment in Buck Bell’s snow bitten eyes. He failed to see the beaten droop of the big boned shoulders inadequately clothed in a soiled flannel shirt and two undershirts. Buck didn’t own an overcoat. His boots were rusty and he kicked his toes against his stirrups as he rode, by way of restoring circulation.
“Looks like when a man begun gittin’ white headed,” said Horace as they dropped down the ridge toward town, “he’d have sense enough to save a winter stake.”