When I couldn't get hold of anything that had the old tang, I laid it all to a hankering after round-up.
Even when we drove around the end of White Divide, and got up on a ridge where I could see the long arm that stretched out from the east side of King's Highway, I wouldn't own up to myself that there was the cause of all my bad feelings.

I think Frosty knew, all along; for when I had sat with my face turned to the divide, and had let my cigarette go cold while I thought and thought, and remembered, he didn't say a word.

But when memory came down to that last ride through the pass, and to Shylock shot down by the corral, at last to Frosty standing, tall and dark, against the first yellow streak of sunrise, while I rode on and left him afoot beside a half-dead horse, I turned my eyes and looked at his thin, thoughtful face beside me.
His eyes met mine for half a minute, and he had a little twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"Chirk up," he said quietly.

"The chances are she'll come back this summer." I guess I blushed.