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Updated: May 29, 2025
An' Gus recollected how not long before Mac New went to work he'd been a regular grub-line runner. We fed him heah, or Juan did. Now, pard, it may be all right an' then again it mayn't. Are you shore aboot him?" "Blink, you make me see how I answer to some feeling that's not practical," returned Pan, much perturbed. "Mac was an outlaw in Montana. Maybe worse.
"If the Old Man feels like canning me, that there's his funeral. I reckon maybe he likes the Pilgrim's breed better for a change. And I wouldn't be none surprised if I could get a job with some other outfit, all right. I ain't aiming to starve nor yet ride grub-line."
The corral poles are scattered right on the spot; only the posts broken off. We can set more posts and throw up the new corrals in two days. The homestead cabins are only charred. The old buildings at the ranch are gone. I'll put a crew in the hills getting out new logs and there'll be enough out-of-job peelers riding grub-line to rebuild the whole place.
Build better than before. Those buildings were pretty old, at best. There'll be enough hungry cowhands riding grub-line at the Three Bar to rebuild it in two months. Every man that feeds on us this winter will have to work." His enthusiasm failed to touch her.
Long years of riding the grub-line had developed in the Major a gift for recognizing the exact psychological moment when he had worn out his welcome as company and was about to be treated as one of the family and sicced on the woodpile, that was like a sixth sense.
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