"Hello. Waked at last, have ye?" spoke Freegift, with a grin.
"Yes, I guess so." Stub found himself speaking in a surprisingly easy fashion. A prodigious amount of words and notions were whirling through his mind. "Where—where am I, anyhow?"
"Ridin' like a king, down the Red River."
"What for?"
"So's to get out an' reach Natchitoches, like the rest of us."
Stub struggled to sit up farther. Ouch!
"What's your name?" he demanded. Then—"I know. It's Freegift Stout. That other man's Terry Miller. But what's my name?"
"Stub, I reckon."
"Yes; of course it is. That's what they call me. But how did you know? How'd you know I'm 'Stub' for short? I'm Jack. That's my regular name—Jack Pursley. I got captured by the Utahs, from my father; did the Pawnees have me, too? Wish I could remember. I do sort of remember. But I'm a white boy. I'm an American, from Kentucky. And my name's Jack Pursley—Stub for short."
Freegift roundly stared, his mouth agape amidst his whiskers.
