"Where's the folks?" he asked.
"Ma's sick, a little, and didn't get up to-day. Pa's down to the corral,
cussing mad. But I can cook you up some chow."
"All right son. I got a dollar here that'll buy you a pretty good store
knife."
The boy flushed so red that by contrast his straw coloured hair seemed
positively white.
"Maybe you want to pay me?" he suggested fiercely. "Maybe you think
we're squatters that run a hotel?"
Recognizing the true Western breed even in this small edition, Nash
grinned.
"Speakin' man to man, son, I didn't think that, but I thought I'd sort
of feel my way."
"Which I'll say you're lucky you didn't try to feel your way with pa;
not the way he's feelin' now."
In the shack of the house he placed the best chair for Nash and set
about frying ham and making coffee. This with crackers, formed the meal.
He watched Nash eat for a moment of solemn silence and then the foreman
looked up to catch a meditative chuckle from the youngster.
"Let me in on the joke, son."
"Nothin'. I was just thinkin' of pa."
"What's he sore about? Come out short at poker lately?"
"No; he lost a hoss.
Pages:
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112