He flung himself
off before his bronco had come to a stop, and gave me a grip that made
me sure of my welcome. It was years since he had seen a man from home,
and the eager joy in his eyes told of long days and nights of lonely
yearning for the old days and the old faces. I came to understand this
better after my two years' stay among these hills that have a strange
power on some days to waken in a man longings that make his heart grow
sick. When supper was over we gathered about the little fire, while Jack
and the half-breed smoked and talked. I lay on my back looking up at the
pale, steady stars in the deep blue of the cloudless sky, and listened
in fullness of contented delight to the chat between Jack and the
driver. Now and then I asked a question, but not too often. It is
a listening silence that draws tales from a western man, not vexing
questions. This much I had learned already from my three days' travel.
So I lay and listened, and the tales of that night are mingled with the
warm evening lights and the pale stars and the thoughts of home that
Jack's coming seemed to bring.
Next morning before sun-up we had broken camp and were ready for our
fifty-mile ride. There was a slight drizzle of rain and, though rain and
shine were alike to him, Jack insisted that I should wear my mackintosh.
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