blazed up high with sparks, and he watched it, although the sun shown
bright on the window-sill. Presently he noticed that a man had come in
and taken a chair. It was Half-past Full, and with his boots stretched to
the warmth, he sat gazing into the fire. The door opened and another
buckaroo entered and sat off in a corner. He had a bundle of old letters,
smeared sheets tied trite a twisted old ribbon. While his large,
top-toughened fingers softly loosened the ribbon, he sat with his back to
the room and presently began to read the letters over, one by one. Most
of the men came in before long, and silently joined the watchers round the
treat fireplace. Drake threw another log on, and in a short time this,
too, broke into ample flame. The silence was long; a slice of shadow had
fallen across the window-sill, when a young man spoke, addressing the
logs:

"I skinned a coon in San Saba, Texas, this day a year."

At the sound of a voice, some of their eyes turned on the speaker, but
turned back to the fire again. The spirit had spoken from the clay,
aloud; and the clay was uncomfortable at hearing it.

After some more minutes a neighbor whispered to a neighbor, "Play you a
game of crib."

The man nodded, stole over to where the board was, and brought it across
the floor on creaking tip-toe. They set it between them, and now and then
the cards made a light sound in the room.

"I treed that coon on Honey," said the young man, after a while--"Honey
Creek, San Saba. Kind o' dry creek. Used to flow into Big Brady when it
rained."