Their
camp they spread away from the others, near the spring. It was dark
before they lit their fire. Visitors sauntering over found George and
Jim Pollock on either side the haphazard blaze stolidly warming through
flapjacks, and occasionally settling into a firmer position the huge
coffee pot. The dust and sweat of driving cattle still lay thick on
their faces. A boy of eighteen, plainly the son of one of the other two,
was hanging up the saddles. The whole group appeared low-spirited and
tired. The men responded to the visitors by a brief nod only. The latter
there-upon sat down just inside the circle of lamplight and smoked in
silence. Presently Jim arose stiffly, frying pan in hand.
"It's done," he announced.
They ate in silence, consuming great quantities of half-cooked
flapjacks, chunks of overdone beef, and tin-cupfuls of scalding coffee.
When they had finished they thrust aside the battered tin dishes with
the air of men too weary to bother further with them. They rolled brown
paper cigarettes and smoked listlessly. After a time George Pollock
remarked:
"We ain't washed up.
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