The mountaineer was jogging along at a foot
pace, his spurs jingling, his bridle hand high after the Western
fashion. When he saw Bob he reined in, nodding a good morning. Bob
noticed that he had strapped on a blanket and slicker, and wore his
six-shooter.
"You look as though you were going on a journey," remarked Bob.
"Thinking of it," said Pollock. Bob glanced up quickly at the tone of
his voice, which somehow grated unusually on the young man's ear, but
the mountaineer's face was placid under the brim of his floppy old hat.
"Might as well," continued the cattleman after a moment. "Nothin'
special to keep me."
"I'm glad Mrs. Pollock is better," ventured Bob.
"She's dead," stated Pollock without emotion. "Died this morning about
two o'clock."
Bob cried out at the utterly unexpected shock of this statement. Pollock
looked down on him as though from a great height.
"I sort of expected it," he answered Bob's exclamation. "I reckon we
won't talk of it. 'Spose you see that Wright's cattle is coming in
again? I'm sorry on account of Jim and the other boys. It wipes me out,
of course, but it don't matter as far as I'm concerned, because I'm
going away, anyway.
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