He was hardy, and he looked it, big as he was and solidly
planted in his wrinkled boots.
The sky, despite Webber's predictions of a storm, was practically free
from clouds, but a breeze was sweeping through the gorge with
increasing strength. It was cold, and the men who stood about in
groups kept their hands in their pockets and their feet on the move for
the sake of the slight degree of warmth thereby afforded.
As their spokesman, Webber, the blacksmith, took the miner aside.
"Jim," said he, producing a buckskin bag, which he dropped in the
miner's pocket, "the boys can't do nuthin' fer little Skeezucks when
he's 'way off up to Fremont, so they've chipped in a little and wanted
you to have it in case of need."
"But, Webber--" started Jim.
"Ain't no buts," interrupted the smith. "You'll hurt their feelin's if
you go to buttin' and gittin' ornary."
Wherefore the heavy little bag of coins remained where Webber had
placed it.
There were sober words of caution and advice, modest requests for a
line now and then, and many an evidence of the hold old Jim had secured
on their hearts before the miner finally received the grave and
carefully bundled little Carson from the arms of Miss Doc and came to
the gate to mount his horse and ride away.
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