But he knew and Slingerland knew that sympathy could do no good here. There was no hope, no help. Neale was stricken. They stood there, the elder man looking all the sadness and inevitableness of that wild life, and the younger, the cowboy, slowly changing to iron.
“Slingerland, you-all said some Californy outfit got Allie?” he queried.
“I’m sure an’ sartin,” replied the trapper. “Them days there wasn’t any travelin’ west, so early after winter. You recollect them four bandits as rode in on us one day? They was from Californy.”
“Wal, I’ll be lookin’ fer men with thet Californy brand,” drawled King, and in his slow, easy, cool speech there was a note deadly and terrible.
Neale slowly ceased his sobbing. “My nerve’s gone,” he said, shakily.
“No. It jest broke you all up to see Slingerland. An’ it shore did me, too,” replied Larry.
“It’s hard, but—” Slingerland could not finish his thought.
“Slingerland, I’m glad to see you, even if it did cut me,” said Neale, more rationally. “I’m surprised, too. Are you here with a load of pelts?”
“No. Boys, I hed to give up trappin’. I couldn’t stand the loneliness—after—after... An’ now I’m killin’ buffalo meat for the soldiers an’ the construction gangs. Jest got in on thet train with a car-load of fresh meat.”
“Buffalo meat,” echoed Neale. His mind wandered.