The other ruminated in deep silence for some time, then rejoined,
"I don't know how it is--a fellow can talk about the worst devilment
in creation with a free rein, and no words hot enough to blister his
tongue, but let him run up against something simple like that, and
the bottom of his lungs seems to fall out. I guess they ain't no
more to be told. That was all there was to it, though I might add
that the next day we come along by old Whisky Simeon's joint that
sets out on the sand-hills, you know, and we put spurs to our bronks
and went whooping by, with old Whisky Sim a-staring and a-hollering
after us like he thought we was crazy. I don't know as I had missed
a drunk before for five year, when the materials was ready-found for
its making. And I ain't never forgot the little kid with the brown
hair and the eyes that seen to your bottom layer, like a water-witch
a-penetrating the ground with a glance, seeing through dirt and clay
and rocks to what water they is."

Mizzoo relapsed into meditative silence, and the young man, in
sympathy with his mood, kept at his side, no longer asking
questions. Darkness came on and the hour grew late but few words
were exchanged as they rode the weary miles that marked the limit
of the range. There were the usual incidents of such work, each
bringing its customary comments. The midnight luncheon beside a
small fire, over which the coffee steamed, roused something like
cheerful conversation which, however, flickered and flared
uncertainly like the bonfire. On the whole the young man was
unwontedly reserved, and the other, perceiving it, fell back
contentedly on his own resources--pleasant memories and rank
tobacco.

"Guess I'll leave you now," remarked the young man, when the fire