My name is Anthony Bard and I'm out here seeing the mountains and having a bully time in general with my rod and gun." The sad eyes regarded him without interest, but Bard swung from his horse and advanced with outstretched hand.
"I may be about here for a few days and we might as well get acquainted, eh?
I'll promise to lay off the questions." "I'm Logan." "Glad to know you, Mr.Logan." "Same t'you.

Don't happen to have no fine-cut about you ?" "No.

Sorry." "So'm I.Ran out an' now all I've got is plug.

Kind of hard on the teeth an' full of molasses." "I've some pipe tobacco, though, which might do." He produced a pouch which Logan opened, taking from it a generous pinch.
"Looks kind of like fine-cut--smells kind of like the real thing"-- here he removed the quid from his mouth and introduced the great pinch of tobacco--"an' I'll be damned if it don't taste a pile the same!" The misty eyes centred upon Bard and a light grew up in them.
"Maybe you'd put a price on this tobacco, stranger ?" "It's yours," said Bard, "to help you forget all the questions I've asked." The shepherd acted at once lest the other might change his mind, dumping the contents of the pouch into the breast pocket of his shirt.

Afterward his gaze sought the dim summits of the Little Brothers, and a sad, great resolution grew up and hardened the lines of his sallow face.
"You can camp with me if you want--partner." A cough, hastily summoned, covered Bard's smile.
"Thanks awfully, but I'm used to camping alone--and rather like it that way." "Which I'd say, the same goes here," responded the shepherd with infinite relief, "I ain't got much use for company--away from a bar.