But seein' we ain't in on the reception, we might as well get
under the covers, eh? I reckon most everybody in camp's turned in."
Piegan had a bulky roll of bedding under the wagon. Spread to its full
width, it was ample for three ordinary men. We had just got out of our
outside garments and were snuggling down between the blankets when Mac
came slopping through the puddles that were now gathering in every
depression. He crawled under the wagon, shed some of his clothing, and
got into bed with us. But he didn't lie down until he had rolled a
cigarette, and then instead of going to sleep he began talking to
Piegan, asking what seemed to me a lot of rather trifling questions. I
was nearly worn out, and their conversation was nowise interesting to
me, so listening to the monotonous drone of their voices and the steady
beat of falling rain, I went to sleep.
Before a great while I wakened; to speak truthfully, the ungentle voice
of Piegan Smith brought me out of dreamland with a guilty start. MacRae
was still sitting up in bed, and from that part of his speech which
filtered into my ears I gathered that he was recounting to Piegan the
tale of our adventures during the past week. I thought that odd, for Mac
was a close-mouthed beggar as a general thing; but there was no valid
reason why he should not proclaim the story from the hill-tops if he
chose, so I rolled over and pulled the blankets above my head--to
protect my ear-drums if Piegan's astonishment should again find verbal
expression.
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