No one hailed him as Weary; his fellow hostlers called him simply Bill.  No one knew the life he knew or loved the things he loved.  His stories of wild rides and hard drives must be explained as he went along and fell even then upon barren soil; so he gave up telling them.  Even his speech, colored as it was with the West which lies East of the Cascades, sounded strange in their ears and set him apart.  They referred to him as “the cowboy”.

Sometimes, when the skies were leaden and the dead atmosphere pressed his very soul to the dank earth, Weary would hoist his umbrella and walk and walk and walk, till the streets grew empty around him and his footsteps sounded hollow on the pavements.  One Sunday when it was not actually raining he hired a horse and rode into the country—­and he came back draggled and unhappy from plodding through the mud, and he never repeated the experiment.

Sometimes he would sit all the evening in his damp-walled room and smoke cigarettes and wonder what the boys were doing, down in the bunk-house at home.  He wondered if they kept Glory up—­or if he was rustling on the range, his sorrel back humped to the storms and the deviltry gone out of him with the grim battle for mere life.

Perhaps there was a dance somewhere; it was a cinch they would all be there—­and Happy Jack would wear the same red necktie and the same painful smile of embarrassment, and there would be a squabble over the piece of bar mirror to shave by.  And the schoolma’am—­ But here Weary’s thoughts would shy and stop abruptly, and if it were not too late he would put on his hat and go to a show; one of those ten-cent continuous-performance places, where the Swede and the Dutchman flourish and the Boneless Man ties himself in knots.

A man will grow accustomed to anything, give him time enough.  When four months had passed in this fashion, Weary began insensibly to turn more to the present and less often, to the past.  His work was not hard, the pay was good and he learned the ways of the town and got more in touch with his acquaintances.  They came to fill his life, so that he thought less often of Chip and Cal and Happy Jack and Slim.  Others were gradually taking their places.

No one had as yet come to lift Miss Satterly’s brown eyes from the deep places of his heart, because he again shied at women; but he was able to draw a veil before them so that they did not haunt him so much.  He began to whistle once more, as he went about his work; but he never whistled “Good Old Summertime.”  There were other foolish songs become popular; he rather fancied “Navajo” these days.

It was past April Fool’s day, and Weary was singing “Nava, Nava, my Navajo,” melodiously while he spread the straw bedding with his fork.  It was a beastly day, even for that climate, but he was glad of it.  He had only to fill a dozen mangers and his morning’s work was done, with the prospect of an idle forenoon; for no one would want to drive, today, unless it was absolutely necessary.