“Son, how’s your work goin’?”
Neale shook his head.
The cowboy, answering for him, said, “We kind of chucked the work, Slingerland.”
“What? Are you hyar in Benton, doin’ nothin’?”
“Shore. Thet’s the size of it.”
The trapper made a vehement gesture of disapproval and he bent a scrutinizing gaze upon Neale.
“Son, you’ve not gone an’—an’—”
“Yes,” replied Neale, throwing out his hands. “I quit. I couldn’t work. I CAN’T work. I CAN’T rest or stand still!”
A spasm of immense regret contracted the trapper’s face. And Larry King, looking away over the sordid, dusty passing throng, cursed under his breath. Neale was the first to recover his composure.
“Let’s say no more. What’s done is done,” he said. “Suppose you take us on one of your buffalo-hunts.”