No comment.
"I suppose you will leave though, some time," pressed the visitor. "You certainly don't intend to vegetate here always?"
"I never expect to leave. I was born here. I shall die here."
Once more the shoulders of the Easterner lifted in mute thanksgiving of fundamental difference. Of a sudden, for some indefinite reason, he felt more at ease in his companion's presence. For the time being the sense of antagonism became passive. What use, after all, was mere physical courage, if one were to bury it in a houseless, treeless waste such as this? The sense of aloofness, of tranquil superiority, returned. He even felt a certain pleasure in questioning the other; as one is interested in questioning a child. Bob Manning's store and Pete Sweeney were temporarily in abeyance.
"Pardon me, if I seem inquisitive," he prefaced, "but I'll probably be here a month or so, and we'll likely see a good deal of each other. Are you married?"
"No."
"You will be, though." It was the ultimatum of one unaccustomed to contradiction. "No man could live here alone. He'd go insane."
"I eat at the ranch house sometimes, but I live alone."
"You won't do so, though, always." Again it was the voice of finality.
The Indian looked straight ahead into the indefinite distance where the earth and sky met.