This running out every two or three weeks, and living in hell till you got more, was plumb wearisome and unnecessary.
On the way back, his trail crossed that of a breed wolfer on his way into the Bad Lands.

Billy immediately asked for tobacco, and the breed somewhat reluctantly opened his pack and exchanged two small sacks for a two-bit piece.

Billy, rolling a cigarette with eager fingers, felt for the moment a deep satisfaction with life.

He even felt some compunction about killing the Pilgrim's dog, when he passed the body stiffening on the snow.

"Poor devil! Yuh hadn't ought to expect much from a dawg--and he was a heap more white-acting than what his owner was," was his tribute to the dead.
It seemed as though, when he closed the cabin door behind him, he somehow shut out his newborn satisfaction.