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 corn bread in each
hand, "that was a dirty shame, sending that poor, sick kid to a cow
camp.
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