“In other words,” Frosty retorted sarcastically, “you think you prefer the canned vegetables and contentment, as the Bible says, to corn-fed beefsteak and homesickness thereby.  But you wait till yuh get to the ranch and old Perry Potter puts yuh through your paces.  You’ll thank the Lord every Sundown that yuh ain’t a forty-dollar man that has got to drill right along or get fired; you’ll pat yourself on the back more than once that you’ve got a cinch on your job and can lay off whenever yuh feel like it.  From all the signs and tokens, us Ragged H punchers’ll be wise to trade our beds off for lanterns to ride by.  Your dad’s bought a lot more cattle, and they’ve drifted like hell; we’ve got to cover mighty near the whole State uh Montana and part uh South Africa to gather them in.”

“You’re a blamed pessimist,” I told him, “and you can’t give me cold feet that easy.  If you knew how I ache to get a good horse under me—­”

“Thought they had horses out your way,” Frosty cut in.

“A range-horse, you idiot, and a range-saddle.  I did ride some on a fancy-gaited steed with a saddle that resembled a porus plaster and stirrups like a lady’s bracelet; it didn’t fill the aching void a little bit.”

“Well, maybe yuh won’t feel any aching void out here,” he said, “but if yuh follow round-up this season you’ll sure have plenty of other brands of ache.”

I told him I’d be right with them at the finish, and he needn’t to worry any about me.  Pretty soon I’ll show you how well I kept my word.  We rode and rode, and handed out our experiences to each other, and got to Pochette’s that night.  I couldn’t help remembering the last time I’d been over that trail, and how rocky I felt about things.  Frosty said he wasn’t worried about that walk of his into Pochette’s growing dim in his memory, either.

Well, then, we got to Pochette’s—­I think I have remarked the fact.  And at Pochette’s, just unharnessing his team, limped my friend of White Divide, old King.  Funny how a man’s view-point will change when there’s a girl cached somewhere in the background.  Not even the memory of Shylock’s stiffening limbs could bring me to a mood for war.  On the contrary, I felt more like rushing up and asking him how were all the folks, and when did Beryl expect to come home.  But not Frosty; he drove phlegmatically up so that there was just comfortable space for a man to squeeze between our rig and King’s, hopped out, and began unhooking the traces as if there wasn’t a soul but us around.  King was looping up the lines of his team, and he glared at us across the backs of his horses as if we were—­well, caterpillars at a picnic and he was a girl with nice clothes and a fellow and a set of nerves.  His next logical move would be to let out a squawk and faint, I thought; in which case I should have started in to do the comforting, with a dipper of water from the pump.  He didn’t faint, though.