You understand."
Again Bob nodded.
"It wasn't that way. The farther off I got, the more I remembered. So
one day I cashed in and come back."
He paused for some time, gazing meditatively on the coffee pot bubbling
over the fire.
"It's good to get back!" he resumed at last. "It smells good; it tastes
good. For a while that did me well enough.... I used to sneak down
nights and look at my old place.... In summer I go back to Jim and the
cattle, but it's dangerous these days. The towerists is getting thicker,
and you can't trust everybody, even among the mountain folks."
"How many know you are back here?" asked Bob.
"Mighty few; Jim and his family knows, of course, and Tom Carroll and
Martin and a few others. They ride up trail to the flat rock sometimes
bringing me grub and papers. But it's plumb lonesome. I can't go on
livin' this way forever, and I can't leave this yere place. Since I have
been living here it seems like--well, I ain't no call as I can see it to
desert my wife dead or alive!" he declared stoutly.
"You needn't explain," said Bob.
George Pollock turned to him with sudden relief.
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