Why, I mind the time when--" The train was late, anyway, and the dried little man sat down on the truck, and fumbled his cigarette book, and began to talk.

Luck sat down beside him and listened, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and a cold cigarette in his fingers.

It was not of this part of the country that the dried little man talked, but of Montana, over there to the west.
Of northern Montana in the days when it was cowman's paradise; the days when round-up wagons started out with the grass greening the hilltops, and swung from the Rockies to the Bear Paws and beyond in the wide arc that would cover their range; of the days of the Cross L and the Rocking R and the Lazy Eight,--every one of them brand names to glisten the eyes of old-time Montanans.
"Where would you go to find them boys now ?" the dried little man questioned mournfully.

"The Rocking R's gone into sheep, and the old boys have all left.

The Cross L moved up into Canada, Lord knows how they're making out; I don't.