The big one bent over to Elbert, whispering: ‘I shore hoped he was over them spells. Six months since Slim’s been took like this. Sad, ain’t it?’
But Elbert saw a reddish flare in Cal’s eyes, usually so icy gray and cool. Something queer was taking place in himself at the same time, a wild hope—the last chance on earth. But he couldn’t miss that he was forgotten now, the pair more and more involved in each other as the tension grew.
‘You’ll admit we’re dyin’ off here,’ said Slim.
‘Not so loud; hush yourself,’ said Cal. ‘We ain’t got no grudge against Heaslep’s. We don’t want to start a stampede of hands just as round-up’s comin’ on.’
‘That’s so,’ Slim muttered.
Elbert suddenly found the eyes of both men boring into his. ‘You won’t tell ’em anything about this, will you? We ain’t got nothin’ against old Frost-face,’ said Slim.
‘I shore would hate to see this outfit left short-handed through any abrupt transformations takin’ place between me and Slim,’ added Cal.
‘I won’t say anything,’ Elbert declared, but the sound of his own voice was strange and unsteady. A moment later he strolled off into the dark. He didn’t trust his face or his feelings which to himself, at least, were conveying meanings louder than words. In a moment or two, Cal’s easy tones reached him.
‘Elbert!’
He went back.