since he lost his foot; he talked to himself at times, and the men found it dangerous to tease him.
"You and your rustlers!" he would say. "Couldn't winter your herd, so you blame it on somebody else!"
He was reported to have a knife and a revolver hidden in his bed-roll.
Only for Tom did he show any affection. He would fill Tom's plate for him, his long body hanging between his crutches, his one trouser leg flapping loose at the bottom; fill it as full as he could.
"Come and get it, Tom, or I'll throw it away!"
He had an inordinate pride when Tom's tallies showed that he had a good calf crop.
"He's a cow-man, he is," he said. "While the rest of you buckaroos were sitting on your hind ends, he was working."
"Oh, go and hire a hall!"
"It's the truth."
"Yes, and the devil's a Sunday school teacher!"
Tom never heard any of these discussions.
He was gaunt and untidy those days; his clothing showed the wear and tear of the winter, his hair was long and unkempt. And he was taciturn in the extreme. He worked hard; his rope was always in his hand. He was the first out in the morning and the last in at night. He was a sort of trouble-shooter for the outfit, in spite of his lameness. His leg was bothering him again. But he was not popular with the men. His brooding silences, and perhaps the fact that his cattle had wintered better than the rest, set him apart from them.
Sometimes when he limped into the cook tent conversation would suddenly cease, and he knew they had been talking about him and his affairs. He would glance around at them with a mocking smile, get his plate and sit down, and after awhile they would find a safe topic and start again.
But he had had a good calf crop in spite of everything. Sixty-five calves now bore his brand, and were fattening and growing on the young spring grass. He had made good. If all went well he could pay Tulloss his interest that fall, maybe
