“Wal, I reckon we’ll see what’s goin’ on in this heah Benton.”
As a matter of fact, Neale reflected, there was nothing to do that he wanted to do.
“You-all air gettin’ the blues,” said Larry, with solicitude.
“Red, I’m never free of them.”
Larry put his hands on Neale’s shoulder. Demonstration of this kind was rare in the cowboy.
“Pard, are we goin’ to see this heah Benton, an’ then brace, an’ go back to work?”
“No. I can’t hold a job,” replied Neale, bitterly.
“You’re showin’ a yellow streak? You’re done, as you told Slingerland? Nothin’ ain’t no good?... Life’s over, fer all thet’s sweet an’ right? Is thet your stand?”
“Yes, it must be, Reddy,” said Neale, with scorn of himself. “But you—it needn’t apply to you.”
“I reckon I’m sorry,” rejoined Larry, ignoring Neale’s last words. “I always hoped you’d get over Allie’s loss.... You had so much to live fer.”