“Now, now, Mr. Tucket. The word ‘fair’ is pretty loose. What’s not fair in St. Louis at a turkey shoot might be fair when you’re up against five or six Comanch.” He cut the word “Comanche” off. “Out here people sort of think of ‘fair’ meaning the same as ‘alive.’ Savvy?”

Francis smiled. “Savvy. ‘Fair’ means that I’m going to gather wood and cook jerky.”

“You are coming along, Mr. Tucket,” the mountain man said, grinning again. “Ten, fifteen years, if you’re still alive, you’ll be the best wood gatherer in the Black Hills …”

———— Chapter Eight ————

THEY LEFT EARLY the next morning. Francis would have liked to stay on for a few more days, but Mr. Grimes saddled his big sorrel gelding just after coffee with the air of a man who has somewhere to go, and Francis, stiff or not, knew better than to make any other suggestions.

“Come on up, Mr. Tucket. Let’s see how old Footloose carries double.”

As it turned out, old Footloose carried double almost as well as he carried single. Francis was given the job of holding the rope that led back to the pack mules. They followed nicely—showing none of the stubbornness Francis thought mules were supposed to show—and under a lightly clouded sky they made their way at a slow walk toward the southwest.

If Francis had expected a lot of conversation as they rode, he would have been sadly disappointed. Mr. Grimes was of the thinking that when he had something to say, he said it—usually with a bit of pepper thrown in. But when there wasn’t anything to talk about, two or three hours might pass without a word coming from his bearded face.

Francis had close to a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but he didn’t say anything for nearly two hours. In that time they had passed out of the main part of the pine forests and were winding down a dry-bottom canyon. It was an extremely pleasant place, even without water. Both sides of the canyon were of gray rock, and were high enough to keep the mid-morning sun from reaching Francis’s back. Occasionally he could hear magpies chattering, and twice he heard the drumming of grouse, beating their wings on rotten logs. Even the sound of the sorrel’s shod hooves, ringing off the rock walls, seemed natural and nice.

There was something bothering Francis, however, that kept him from enjoying these things the way he might have. Part of it was Rebecca—and not knowing about her. But it was Mr. Grimes that upset him more, and finally, as the sorrel brought them out of the canyon and back into the sun, Francis spoke up.