It is a listening silence that draws tales from a western man, not vexing questions.

This much I had learned already from my three days' travel.
So I lay and listened, and the tales of that night are mingled with the warm evening lights and the pale stars and the thoughts of home that Jack's coming seemed to bring.
Next morning before sun-up we had broken camp and were ready for our fifty-mile ride.

There was a slight drizzle of rain and, though rain and shine were alike to him, Jack insisted that I should wear my mackintosh.
This garment was quite new and had a loose cape which rustled as I moved toward my cayuse.

He was an ugly-looking little animal, with more white in his eye than I cared to see.

Altogether, I did not draw toward him.
Nor did he to me, apparently.