“No call to get mad,” expostulated the man in rather discouraged tones; “I just thought as how mebbe you was still feeling friendly-like.  My mistake.  But I reckon you won’t be giving me away anyhow?”

During this speech he had slowly produced from his hip pocket a frayed bandana handkerchief; as slowly taken off his hat and mopped his brow.

The removal of the floppy and shady old sombrero exposed to the mingled rays of the fire and the moon the man’s full features.  Heretofore, Bob had been able to see indistinctly only the meagre facts of a heavy beard and clear eyes.

“George Pollock!” he cried, dropping the revolver and leaping forward with both hands outstretched.

XI

Pollock took his hands, but stared at him puzzled.  “Surely!” he said at last.  His clear blue eyes slowly widened and became bigger.  “Honest!  Didn’t you know me!  Is that what ailed you, Bobby?  I thought you’d done clean gone back on me; and I sure always remembered you for a friend!”

“Know you!” shouted Bob.  “Why, you eternal old fool, how should I know you?”

“You might have made a plumb good guess.”

“Oh, sure!” said Bob; “easiest thing in the world.  Guess that the first shadow you see in the woods is a man you thought was in Mexico.”

“Didn’t you know I was here?” demanded Pollock earnestly.  “Sure pop?”

“How should I know?” asked Bob again.

George Pollock’s blue eyes smouldered with anger.

“I’ll sure tan that promising nephew of mine!” he threatened; “I’ve done sent you fifty messages by him.  Didn’t he never give you none of them?”

“Who; Jack?”

“That’s the whelp.”

Bob laughed.

“That’s a joke,” said he; “I’ve been bunking with him for a year.  Nary message!”

“I told Carroll and Martin and one or two more to tell you.”

“I guess they’re suspicious of any but the mountain people,” said Bob.  “They’re right.  How could they know?”

“That’s right, they couldn’t,” agreed George reluctantly.  “But I done told them you was my friend.  And I thought you’d gone back on me sure.”

“Not an inch!” cried Bob, heartily.

George kicked the logs of the fire together, filled the coffee pot at the creek, hung it over the blaze, and squatted on his heels.  Bob tossed him a sack of tobacco which he caught.

“Thought you were bound for Mexico,” hazarded Bob at length.

“I went,” said Pollock shortly, “and I came back.”

“Yes,” said Bob after a time.

“Homesick,” said Pollock; “plain homesick.  Wasn’t so bad that-a-way at first.  I was desp’rit.  Took a job punching with a cow outfit near Nogales.  Worked myself plumb out every day, and slept hard all night, and woke up in the morning to work myself plumb out again.”

He fished a coal from the fire and deftly flipped it atop his pipe bowl.  After a dozen deep puffs, he continued: