Enoch could not recall
ever having been so wretchedly uncomfortable in his life. He was
sodden to the skin, aching with weariness, shivering with cold. But he
made no murmur of protest. It was Curly who, about five o'clock,
called:
"Hey, Mack! I've gone my limit!"
Mack pulled up and seemed to hesitate. As he did so, the storm, with a
suddenness that was unbelievable, stopped. A last flare of lightning
seemed to blast the clouds from the sky. The rain ceased and the sun
enveloped mesas, gorges, trail in a hundred rainbows.
"How about a fire?" asked Mack, grinning, with chattering teeth.
"It must be done somehow," replied Curly. "Come on, Just, shake it up!"
"Look here, Curly," exclaimed Mack, pausing in the act of throwing his
leg over the saddle, "I think you ought to treat Mr. Smith with more
respect. He ain't your hired help."
"The dickens he isn't!" grinned Curly.
"It's all right, Mack! I enjoy it," said Enoch, dismounting stiffly.
"If you do," Mack gave him a keen look, "you aren't enjoying it the way
Curly thinks you do."
Enoch returned Mack's gaze, smiled, but said nothing further. Mack,
however, continued to grumble.
"I'm as good as the next fellow, but I don't believe in giving
everybody a slap on the back or a kick in the pants to prove it.
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