The other ruminated in deep silence for some time,then rejoined,I don't know how it is--a fellow can talk about the worst devilment in creation with a free rein,and no words hot enough to blister his tongue,but let him run up against something simple like that,and the bottom of his lungs seems to fall out.I guess they ain't no more to be told.That was all there was to it,though I might add that the next day we come along by old Whisky Simeon's joint that sets out on the sand-hills,you know,and we put spurs to our bronks and went whooping by,with old Whisky Sim a-staring and a-hollering after us like he thought we was crazy.I don't know as I had missed a drunk before for five year,when the materials was ready-found for its making.And I ain't never forgot the little kid with the brown hair and the eyes that seen to your bottom layer,like a water-witch a-penetrating the ground with a glance,seeing through dirt and clay and rocks to what water they is.
Mizzoo relapsed into meditative silence,and the young man,in sympathy with his mood,kept at his side,no longer asking questions.Darkness came on and the hour grew late but few words were exchanged as they rode the weary miles that marked the limit of the range.There were the usual incidents of such work,each bringing its customary comments.The midnight luncheon beside a small fire,over which the coffee steamed,roused something like cheerful conversation which,however,flickered and flared uncertainly like the bonfire.On the whole the young man was unwontedly reserved,and the other,perceiving it,fell back contentedly on his own resources--pleasant memories and rank tobacco.