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Blink
by
For a time they rode aimlessly, Weary in the lead. Then, when it grew no better but worse, he pulled up, just where a high bank shut off the wind and a tangle of brush barred the way in front.
“We may as well camp right here till things loosen up a little,” he said. “There’s no use playing blind-man’s-buff any longer. We’ll have some fire, for a change. Mama! this is sure beautiful weather!”
At that, they brightened a bit and hurriedly dismounted and hunted dry wood. Since they were to have a fire, the general tendency was to have a big one; so that when they squatted before it and held out cold, ungloved fingers to the warmth, the flames were leaping high into the fog and crackling right cheerily. It needed only a few puffs at their cigarettes to chase the gloom from their faces and put them in the mood for talk. Only Blink sat apart and stared moodily into the fire, his hands clasped listlessly around his knees, and to him they gave no attention. He was an alien, and a taciturn one at that. The Happy Family were accustomed to living clannishly, even on roundup, and only when they tacitly adopted a man, as they had adopted Pink and Irish and, last but not least important, Andy Green, did they take note of that man’s mood and demand reasons for any surliness.
“If Slim would perk up and go run down a grouse or two,” Pink observed pointedly, “we’d be all right for the day. How about it, Slim?”
“Run ’em down yourself,” Slim retorted. “By golly, I ain’t no lop-ear bird dog.”
“The law’s out fer chickens,” Happy Jack remarked dolefully.
“Go on, Happy, and get us a few. You’ve got your howitzer buckled on,” fleered Andy Green. Andy it was whose fertile imagination had so christened Happy Jack’s formidable weapon.
“Aw, gwan!” protested Happy Jack.
“Happy looks like he was out for a rep,” bantered Pink. “He makes me think uh the Bad Man in a Western play. All he needs is his hat turned up in front and his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, like he was killing hogs. Happy would make a dandy-looking outlaw, with that gun and that face uh his.”
“Say, by golly, I bet that’s what he’s figurin’ on doing. He ain’t going to punch cows no more–I bet he’s thinking about turning out.”
“Well, when I do, you’ll be the first fellow I lay for,” retorted Happy, with labored wit.
“You never’d get a rep shooting at a target the size uh Slim,” dimpled Pink. “Is that toy cannon loaded, Happy?”
“I betche yuh dassen’t walk off ten paces and let me show yuh,” growled Happy.
Pink made as if to rise, then settled back with a sigh. “Ten paces is farther than you could drive me from this fire with a club,” he said. “And you couldn’t see me, in this fog.”
“Say, it is pretty solid,” said Weary, looking around him at the blank, gray wall. “A fellow could sit right here and be a lot ignorant of what’s going on around him. A fellow could–“
“When I was riding down in the San Simon basin,” spoke up Andy, rolling his second cigarette daintily between his finger-tips, “I had a kinda queer experience in a fog, once. It was thick as this one, and it rolled down just about as sudden and unexpected. That’s a plenty wild patch uh country–or it was when I was there. I was riding for a Spanish gent that kept white men as a luxury and let the greasers do about all the rough work–such as killing off superfluous neighbors, and running brands artistic, and the like. Oh, he was a gay mark, all right.
“But about this other deal: I was out riding alone after a little bunch uh hosses, one day in the fall. I packed my gun and a pair uh field glasses, and every time I rode up onto a mesa I’d take a long look at all the lower country to save riding it. I guess I’d prognosticated around like that for two or three hours, when I come out on a little pinnacle that slopes down gradual toward a neighbor’s home ranch–only the ranch itself was quite a ride back up the basin.