The foreman took the first turn, and opposite him sat a one-eyed
old scoundrel who had rustle calves from big outfits ever since
Wyoming was a territory and long before. Chalkeye Dave, he was
called, and sometimes merely Chalkeye. What his real name was no
man knew. Nor was his past a subject for conversation in his
presence. It was known that he had been in the Nevada
penitentiary, and that he had killed a man in Arizona, but these
details of an active life were rarely resurrected. For Chalkeye
was deadly on the shoot, and was ready for it at the drop of the
hat, though he had his good points too. One of these was a
remarkable fondness for another member of the party, a mere lad,
called by his companions Hughie. Generally surly and morose, to
such a degree that even his chief was careful to humor him as a
rule, when with Hughie all the softer elements of his character
came to the surface. In his rough way he was ever humorous and
genial.
Jim McWilliams found him neither, however. He declined to engage
in conversation, accepted a proffer of tobacco with a silent,
hostile grunt and relapsed into a long silence that lasted till
his shift was ended.
"Hate to have y'u leave, old man.
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