Their talk drifted to other points, and I lay thinking of the skirmish that had played beneath the surface of their banter. Yes, the joke, as they put it, was on Steve. He had lost one point in the game to them. They were playing for names. He, being a chivalrous thief, was playing to hide names. They could only, among several likely confederates, guess Trampas and Shorty. So it had been a slip for him to curse the man who built the fire. At least, they so held it. For, they with subtlety reasoned, one curses the absent. And I agreed with them that Ed did not know how to lie well; he should have at once claimed the disgrace of having spoiled the expedition. If Shorty was the blunderer, then certainly Trampas was the other man; for the two were as inseparable as don and master. Trampas had enticed Shorty away from good, and trained him in evil. It now struck me that after his single remark the Virginian had been silent throughout their shrewd discussion. It was the other prisoner that I heard them next address. “You don’t eat any breakfast, Ed.” “Brace up, Ed. Look at Steve, how hardy he eats!” But Ed, it seemed, wanted no breakfast. And the tin dishes rattled as they were gathered and taken to be packed. “Drink this coffee, anyway,” another urged; “you’ll feel warmer.” These words almost made it seem like my own execution. My whole body turned cold in company with the prisoner’s, and as if with a clank the situation tightened throughout my senses. “I reckon if every one’s ready we’ll start.” It was the Virginian’s voice once more, and different from the rest. I heard them rise at his bidding, and I put the blanket over my head. I felt their tread as they walked out, passing my stall. The straw that was half under me and half out in the stable was stirred as by something heavy dragged or half lifted along over it. “Look out, you’re hurting Ed’s arm,” one said to another, as the steps with tangled sounds passed slowly out. I heard another among those who followed say, “Poor Ed couldn’t swallow his coffee.” Outside they began getting on their horses; and next their hoofs grew distant, until all was silence round the stable except the dull, even falling of the rain. XXXI. THE COTTONWOODS I do not know how long I stayed there alone. It was the Virginian who came back, and as he stood at the foot of my blankets his eye, after meeting mine full for a moment, turned aside. I had never seen him look as he did now, not even in Pitchstone Canyon when we came upon the bodies of Hank and his wife. Until this moment we had found no chance of speaking together, except in the presence of others. “Seems to be raining still,” I began after a little. “Yes. It’s a wet spell.” He stared out of the door, smoothing his mustache. It was again I that spoke. “What time is it?” He brooded over his watch. “Twelve minutes to seven.” I rose and stood drawing on my clothes.