just arranging the hunks of barbecued beef, and distributing the tin coffee cups for supper. Raidler evaded a direct question concerning the one subject in his mind.
“Everything all right in camp, Pete?” he managed to inquire.
“So, so,” said Pete conservatively. “Grub give out twice. Wind scattered the cattle, and we’ve had to rake the brush for forty mile. I need a new coffee pot. And the mosquitos is some more hellish than common.”
“The boys—all well?”
Pete was no optimist. Besides, inquiries concerning the health of cow-punchers were not only superfluous, but bordered on flaccidity. It was not like the boss to make them.
“What’s left of ’em don’t miss no calls to grub,” the cook conceded.
“What’s left of ’em?” repeated Raidler in a husky voice. Mechanically he began to look around for McGuire’s grave. He had in his mind a white slab such as he had seen in the Alabama church-yard. But immediately he knew that was foolish.
“Sure,” said Pete; “what’s left. Cow camps change in two months. Some’s gone.”
Raidler nerved himself.
“That—chap—I sent along—McGuire—did—he———”
“Say,” interrupted Pete, rising with a chunk of
