Part 81 (1/2)

Bob laughed.

”That's a joke,” said he; ”I've been bunking with him for a year. Nary message!”

”I told Carroll and Martin and one or two more to tell you.”

”I guess they're suspicious of any but the mountain people,” said Bob.

”They're right. How could they know?”

”That's right, they couldn't,” agreed George reluctantly. ”But I done told them you was my friend. And I thought you'd gone back on me sure.”

”Not an inch!” cried Bob, heartily.

George kicked the logs of the fire together, filled the coffee pot at the creek, hung it over the blaze, and squatted on his heels. Bob tossed him a sack of tobacco which he caught.

”Thought you were bound for Mexico,” hazarded Bob at length.

”I went,” said Pollock shortly, ”and I came back.”

”Yes,” said Bob after a time.

”Homesick,” said Pollock; ”plain homesick. Wasn't so bad that-a-way at first. I was desp'rit. Took a job punching with a cow outfit near Nogales. Worked myself plumb out every day, and slept hard all night, and woke up in the morning to work myself plumb out again.”

He fished a coal from the fire and deftly flipped it atop his pipe bowl.

After a dozen deep puffs, he continued:

”Never noticed the country; had nothing to do with the people. All I knew was brands and my bosses. Did good enough cow work, I reckon. For a fact, it was mebbe half a year before I begun to look around. That country is worse than over Panamit way. There's no trees; there's no water; there's no green gra.s.s; there's no folks; there's no nothin'! The mountains look like they're made of paper. After about a half year, as I said, I took note of all this, but I didn't care. What the h.e.l.l difference did it make to me what the country was like? I hadn't no theories to that. I'd left all that back here.”

He looked at Bob questioningly, unwilling to approach nearer his tragedy unless it was necessary. Bob nodded.

”Then I begun to dream. Things come to me. I'd see places plain--like the falls at Cascadell--and smell things. For a fact, I smelt azaleas plain and sweet once; and woke up in the d.a.m.ndest alkali desert you ever see. I thought I'd never want to see this country again; the farther I got away, the more things I'd forget. You understand.”

Again Bob nodded.

”It wasn't that way. The farther off I got, the more I remembered. So one day I cashed in and come back.”

He paused for some time, gazing meditatively on the coffee pot bubbling over the fire.

”It's good to get back!” he resumed at last. ”It smells good; it tastes good. For a while that did me well enough.... I used to sneak down nights and look at my old place.... In summer I go back to Jim and the cattle, but it's dangerous these days. The towerists is getting thicker, and you can't trust everybody, even among the mountain folks.”

”How many know you are back here?” asked Bob.

”Mighty few; Jim and his family knows, of course, and Tom Carroll and Martin and a few others. They ride up trail to the flat rock sometimes bringing me grub and papers. But it's plumb lonesome. I can't go on livin' this way forever, and I can't leave this yere place. Since I have been living here it seems like--well, I ain't no call as I can see it to desert my wife dead or alive!” he declared stoutly.

”You needn't explain,” said Bob.

George Pollock turned to him with sudden relief.

”Well, you know about such things. What am I to do?”