"
"And how was that?" I asked.
The afternoon was lazy and good, and I in a mood to listen to my
rambling grey comrade talk of anybody or anything.
"It's this a-way," he began. "This yere Bill an' Jim Rawlins is
brothers an' abides in Roanoke, Virginny. They splits up in their
yooth, an' Jim goes p'intin' out for the West. Which he shore gets
thar, an' nothin' is heard of him for forty years.
"Bill Rawlins, back in Roanoke, waxes a heap rich, an' at last
clears up his game an' resolves lie takes a rest. Also he concloods
to travel; an' as long as he's goin' to travel, he allows he'll sort
o' go projectin' 'round an' see if he can't locate Jim.
"He gets a old an' musty tip about Jim, this Bill Rawlins does, an'
it works out all right. Bill cuts Jim's trail 'way out yonder on the
Slope at a meetropolis called Los Angeles. But this yere Jim ain't
thar none. The folks tells Bill they reckons Jim is over to Virginny
City.
"It's a month later, an' Bill is romancin' along on one of them
Nevada mountain-meadow trails, when he happens upon a low, squatty
dugout, the same bein' a camp rather than a house, an' belongs with
a hay ranche. In the door is standin' a most ornery seemin' gent,
with long, tangled ha'r an' beard, an' his clothes looks like he's
shorely witnessed times.
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