Something about the girl, her timidity or just the lonely way she looked, sitting by her window, had drawn him. Then, to escape the stuffy cabin, she went outside and sat on a stump for a while. His hair was white--Clara had never been able to get his age out of him, but she imagined he was seventy-five at least, perhaps eighty. We'll go north, up the Powder River, right into Montana.
Where's she live, Mexico? Augustus asked, curious as to where the short old man had come from. He knew he would have to tell the story, but didn't want to have to tell it a dozen times. It never hurts to be ready, he said, quoting an old saying of the Captain's. He had ridden right past them in the dust.
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