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His manner was so dispiriting that Buck was thankful when the silent meal was over, and even more so an hour later to spread his blankets in one of the spare bunks and turn in. His relief at getting away early the next morning was almost as great as Gabby's could be to see him go.
"I'll send you down to help Gabby Smith at Red Butte camp. That's 'way to hell and gone down at the south end of the outfit, where nobody goes from here more'n about once in six months. Gabby's one of these here solitary guys that's sorta soured on the world in gen'al, an' don't hardly open his face except to take in grub, but yuh can trust him.
They greeted Stratton with some brevity, but after the first pangs of hunger had been assuaged and they learned where he was bound for, they expanded, and Buck was the object of much joking commiseration on the prospect before him. "You'll sure have one wild time," grinned a dark-haired, blue-eyed youngster called Broncho. "Gabby's about as sociable as a rattler.
His effort, though it could scarcely be termed successful, evidently got on Gabby's nerves, for afterward he turned both men out of the cabin while he cleared up, a process lasting until nearly bedtime. It was not until then that Stratton, by a chance remark, learned that three or four days after his departure from the camp two weeks earlier, a stranger had been there making inquiries about him.
At the sight of Buck the sourness became accentuated and increased still more when he observed the ashes on the floor. His only reply to Stratton's introduction of himself was a grunt and Buck lost no time in easing the fellow's mind of any fear of a prolonged spell of company. Even then Gabby's gloom scarcely lightened.
Gabby's stenographic brevity made it difficult to extract details, but apparently the fellow had passed himself off as an old friend of Buck's from Texas, desirous of looking him up. He was a stranger to Gabby, slight, dark, with eyes set rather closely together, and he rode a Shoe-Bar horse.
He was interested in the economy because his small savings were mostly in the stock market. He picked up a copy of Trader Vic Methods of a Wall Street Master by Victor Sperandeo. By the time he chose a tape of slack key guitar by Cyril Pahinui, Gabby's son, it was dark. On his way out, he averted his eyes from the cooking section, but he needn't have; the woman was gone.
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