George McCloud
cold-storage squab, just pinfeathers and legs. “Shave him clean,” said he, “and you could have counted his teeth through his cheeks.”
The sick man turned his face to the wall. “It’s kind enough,” he muttered, “but I guess it’s too late.”
Bucks did not speak for some time. Twilight had faded above the hills, and only the candle lighted the room. Then the master of mountain men, grizzled and brown, turned his eyes again to the bed. McCloud was staring at the ceiling. “We have a town of your name down on the plains, McCloud,” said Bucks, blowing away the cigar smoke after the long silence. “It is one of our division points, and a good one.”
“I know the town,” responded McCloud. “It was named after one of our family.”
“I guess not.”
“It was, though,” said McCloud wearily.
“I think,” returned Bucks, “you must be mistaken. The man that town was named after belonged to the fighting McClouds.”
“That is my family.”
“Then where is your fight? When I propose to put you into my car and pull you out of this, why do you say it is too late? It is never too late.”
McCloud made no answer, and Bucks ran on: “For a man that worked out as well as you did
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