“You poor little devil!” he said softly.  He reached out his hand quickly, downright hungrily, for Jimmie’s.

Clayton took the hand eagerly and held it a moment in his tense hot fingers as his eyes sought and studied Thornton’s.  Then he sank back with a little satisfied sigh, lying flat, his hands under his head.

“I’m sure gone to seed, huh, Buck?” he demanded.

“It’s tough, Jimmie.  Tell me about it.”

The broken line of discolored teeth showed suddenly under the lifted lip.

“It ain’t much to tell, Buck,” Clayton answered slowly as the snarl left the pinched features.  “But it’s somethin’ for a man to think about when he lays in a hole like this like a sick cat.  But, Buck,” and he spoke sharply, “didn’t you bring no grub with you?”

“Yes, Jimmie.  Wait a minute.”  Thornton stepped outside, not forgetting to close the door quickly after him, jerked the little package from his saddle strings where it had posed all day as his own lunch, and brought it back into the dugout.  “I didn’t know just what you wanted, but here’s some bread and a hunk of cold meat and here’s some coffee.  We’ll get it to boiling in a minute, and...”

“An’ a drink, Buck?” eagerly.  “You brung a flask, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Jimmie,” Thornton assured him with a quiet smile.  He whipped the flask from his pocket and removing the cork held it out.  “I remember that you used to say a meal without a drink wasn’t any use to you.”

Clayton put out a swift hand for the flask, shot it to his lips, and the gurgle of the running liquor spoke of a long draught.

“Now, the grub, Buck.”  He sat up, a little healthier color in his cheeks.  “Let the coffee go; it’ll come in handy tomorrow.”

Thornton made a cigarette and leaning back against the door watched this outcast who bore the brand of the hunted on his brow, whose eyes were feverish with a hunger that was ravenous.

“Poor little old Jimmie,” he muttered under his breath.

Clayton picked over the contents of the little package with hasty fingers, pushing the bread aside, eating noisily of the meat.  When at last he had finished he rolled up the remainder of the lunch in the greasy paper, thrust it under the corner of his blanket, and put out his hands for the tobacco and papers.

“I ain’t even had a smoke for three days, Buck.  Hones’ to Gawd, I ain’t.”

“Now, Jimmie,” Thornton suggested when both men were smoking, and Clayton again lay on his back, resting, “better tell me about it.  Can’t I move you over to my cabin?”

“No, Buck.  You can’t.  An’ I’ll tell you.”  He broke off suddenly, his eyes burning with an anxious intensity upon Thornton’s.  Then, with a new note in his voice, a half whimper, he blurted out, “Hones’ to Gawd, I’ll blow my brains out before I let ’em get me again!  But you wouldn’t give me away, Buck, would you?  You’d remember how I stuck by you down in El Paso, won’t you, Buck?  You wouldn’t give a damn for ... for a reward if they was to offer one, would you, Buck?  ’Cause you know I’d shoot myself if they got me, an’ you don’t forget how I stuck to you, do you, Buck?”