"You been square to me all your life, Colonel," says I, "and I can't kick. All cowpunchers has to be turned out to grass sometime and it's been a long time coming for me. I'm as old as you are, Colonel, and I can't complain." "Curly," says he, "what you're saying cuts me a little more than anything ever did happen to me. Ain't I always done right by you?" "Of course you have, Colonel. Who said you hadn't?" "Ain't you always been square with me?" "Best I knew how," says I. "I never let my right hand know what my left was doing with a running iron--and I was left-handed." "That's right; you helped me get my start in the early days. I owe a lot to you--a lot more than I've ever paid; but the least I could do for you would be to give you a home and a place at my table as long as ever you live, and more wages than you're worth--ain't that the truth?" "I don't know how you figure that," says I. "Yes; you do, too, know how I figure that--you know there ain't but one way I could figure it. You stay with me till hell freezes under both of us; and I don't want to hear no more talk about you going West or nowheres else." Folkses' Adam's apples bothers sometimes. "We built this brand together," says he, "and what right you got to shake it now?" says he; me not being able now to talk much. "We rode this range, every foot of it, together, and more than once slept under the same saddle blanket. I've trusted you to tally a thousand head of steers for me a half dozen times a year. You've had the spring rodeo in your hands ever since I can remember. You've been one-half pa of that kid. Has times changed so much that you got a right to talk the way you're talking?" "You're going back into the States, though, Colonel," says I. "They turn men out there when they're forty--and I'll never see forty again. I read in the papers that forty is the dead line back there." "It ain't in Wyoming," says he. "We won't be in Wyoming no more, there," says I. He set and looked off across the range toward the Gunsight Gap, at the head of the river, and I could see him get white under his freckles. He was game, but he was scared. "We can't help it, Curly," says he. "We've raised the girl between us and we've got to stick all the way through. You've been my foreman here and you got to be my foreman there in the city. We'll land there with a few million dollars or so and I reckon we'll learn the game after a while." "I'd make a hell of a vallay, wouldn't I, Colonel?" says I. "I didn't ast you to be no vallay for me," says he. "I ast you to be my foreman--you know damn well what I mean." I did know, too, far as that's concerned, and I thought more of Old Man Wright then than I ever did. Of course it's hard for men to talk much out on the range, and we didn't talk. We only set for quite a while, with our knees up, breaking sticks and looking off at the Gunsight Gap, on top of the range--just as if we hadn't saw it there any day these past forty years.