At him Ramone glanced apologetically.
"We borrow comfort from your fire, _senor_," he said indifferently.
"She's bad day for riding." Luck nodded, already ashamed of having lost his temper, yet not at the point of yielding openly to any overtures for peace.

"Soon as we eat," he said to Weary and those others who stood nearest, "I'll have you cut out that poor cow and calf and drive 'em down the flat here, so I can get that other scene I was telling you about." "Wagalexa Conka, here is plenty hot coffee," came a soft voice at his elbow, and Luck turned with a smile to take the steaming cup from the hand of Annie-Many-Ponies.
The Native Son poured a cup and offered it to Tomas Chavez.

"_Quire cafe_ ?" he asked.
"_Si, senor; Gracias_." Tomas smiled, and took the cup and bowed.
Annie-Many-Ponies herself, with a sidelong glance at Luck to see if she might dare, carried the biggest cup of coffee to Ramone, and smiled demurely when he took it and looked into her eyes and thanked her.
In this fashion did the social sky clear, even though the snow continued to drive against those who broke bread together out there in the dreary wastes, with the snow halfway to their knees.

The Native Son, being half Spanish and knowing well the language of his father, talked a little with Tomas.

Ramone made himself friendly with any one who would give him any attention.