id softly. He reached out his hand
quickly, downright hungrily, for Jimmie's.

Clayton took the hand eagerly and held it a moment in his tense hot
fingers as his eyes sought and studied Thornton's. Then he sank back
with a little satisfied sigh, lying flat, his hands under his head.

"I'm sure gone to seed, huh, Buck?" he demanded.

"It's tough, Jimmie. Tell me about it."

The broken line of discolored teeth showed suddenly under the lifted
lip.

"It ain't much to tell, Buck," Clayton answered slowly as the snarl left
the pinched features. "But it's somethin' for a man to think about when
he lays in a hole like this like a sick cat. But, Buck," and he spoke
sharply, "didn't you bring no grub with you?"

"Yes, Jimmie. Wait a minute." Thornton stepped outside, not forgetting
to close the door quickly after him, jerked the little package from his
saddle strings where it had posed all day as his own lunch, and brought
it back into the dugout. "I didn't know just what you wanted, but here's
some bread and a hunk of cold meat and here's some coffee. We'll get it
to boiling in a minute, and..."

"An' a drink, Buck?" eagerly. "You brung a flask, didn't you?"

"Yes, Jimmie," Thornton assured him with a quiet smile. He whipped the
flask from his pocket and removing the cork held it out. "I remember
that you used to say a meal without a drink wasn't any use to you."

Clayton put out a swift hand for the flask, shot it to his lips, and the
gurgle of the running liquor spoke of a long draught.

"Now, the grub, Buck." He sat up, a little healthier color in his
cheeks. "Let the coffee go; it'll come in handy tomorrow."

Thornton made a cigarette and leaning back against the door watched this
outcast who bore the brand of the hunted on his brow, whose eyes were
feverish with a hunger that was ravenous.

"Poor little old Jimmie," he muttered under his breath.

Clayton picked over the contents of the little package with hasty
fingers, pushing the bread aside, eating noisily of the meat. When at
last he had finished he rolled up the remainder of the lunch in the
greasy paper, thrust it under the corner of his blanket, and put out his
hands for the tobacco and papers.

"I ain't even had a smoke for three days, Buck. Hones' to Gawd, I
ain't."

"Now, Jimmie," Thornton suggested when both men were smoking, and
Clayton again lay on his back, resting, "better tell me about it. Can't
I move you over to my cabin?"

"No, Buck.