We smoked cigarettes--Frosty Miller made his, one by one, as he needed them--and thought our own thoughts.

I rather suspect our thoughts were a good many miles apart, though our shoulders touched.

When you think of it, people may rub elbows and still have an ocean or two between them.

I don't know where Frosty was, all through that long day's ride; for me, I was back in little old Frisco, with Barney MacTague and the rest of the crowd; and part of the time, I know, I was telling dad what a mess he'd made of bringing up his only son.
That night we slept in a shack at the river--"Pochette Crossing" was the name it answered to--and shared the same bed.

It was not remarkable for its comfort--that bed.