He seemed to have enjoyed going to them greatly, and described each individual one at length.  Never before had Whitey known what a subject for conversation funerals could make.  Little dwelled on the burial of each one of his immediate family, then passed on to his distant relatives, then to his friends, then to his acquaintances.  Whitey’s nerves were pretty steady, as you know, but after about four hours of this, Little got him so fidgety that he thought he would fall off the horse.  Finally he thought Little had changed the subject, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Drink’s a awful evil,” Little announced solemnly.  “They was a friend o’ mine, one o’ them two-handed drinkers, what was down to Bismarck, an’ got in th’ c’ndition what liquor perduces, an’ this friend o’ mine was standin’ on th’ sidewalk, an’ ’long comes a funeral.”

“Here it is again!” muttered Whitey, with a groan.

“An’ this friend o’ mine,” Little continued, “sees this here funeral, an’ bein’ in th’ c’ndition he’s in, he thinks it is a percession, an’ he waves his hat an’ cheers, an’ he gets urrested.”

Little looked sternly at Whitey as though to drive the moral of this story home, and to warn him never to drink and cheer a funeral.  But at this moment “Willer Bend” hove in sight, and the talk turned to other channels.

The Bend was a relief in more ways than one, for it was a beautiful spot on the sharp turn of a narrow creek, whose banks were overhung by weeping-willows, the green of their leaves made vivid by the recent rain.  One Chet Morgan, a nester, lived here.  Nesters—­or small farmers—­were not usually popular in the early days of the Western ranges, as they had a way of fencing in the springs, or water-holes, to provide irrigation for their crops.  But there was plenty of water in that country, so Chet was welcome to all of it he wanted.

While Whitey sat in the doorway of the small shack, Little had a long talk with Chet, near the stable, and Chet seemed to be nodding his head in agreement to everything the puncher said.  They then rested awhile and had dinner with the nester, and after that Little rode away, leading Whitey’s borrowed horse.  There seemed no reason for Whitey’s staying any longer, and Chet again went to the stable, and returned leading what is called a jack, “jack” being short for “jackass.”

“Here’s your mount, son,” said Chet, “an’ if you’ll keep t’ th’—­”

“Am I to ride that?” Whitey demanded, pointing at the jack.

“Sure,” Chet replied.  “Both of my hosses has glanders, but this jack’s all right.  I’ve rid him offen.  You’ll find him gentle an’ perseverin’ an’ good comp’ny.  Mebbe he does go a mite faster toward home than away from it, but he allus gets somewhere.  His name’s Felix, after a uncle o’ mine what—­”

Followed a personal history of Chet’s uncle, to which Whitey did not listen.  He was thinking of the figure he would cut arriving at the Star Circle on Felix, and hoped he would get there at night.  Chet returned to the subject of the jack, to whose back a blanket was strapped.