Wal, I'll divvy with them.

Sure, Wade, you hit me right.

I was dyin' fer a real smoke.

An' I reckon what's mine is yours." Then he strode out of the cabin, whistling a merry cowboy tune.
Wade was left sitting in the middle of the room on his roll of bedding, and for a long time he remained there motionless, with his head bent, his worn hands idly clasped.

A heavy footfall outside aroused him from his meditation.
"Hey, Wade!" called the cheery voice of Belllounds.