“Any changes?” asked Alex Larson, the boss of the drover outfit and owner of the Empire Ranch out of Montezuma Territory.

  “Not of the beneficial variety,” said Mark.

  Alex glanced at Randall and his sullen expression gave him all the confirmation he needed. Alex swore and slapped his hat against his thigh in impotent frustration.

  “Damn,” he said.

  None of the other drovers, who had gathered around in a huddle to hear Mark and Randall’s news of their companion, spoke aloud but their downcast eyes and drooping shoulders spoke to their concurrence with the boss’ expletive. Billy Peterson was a young drover, a new hire for the season, full of spit and vigor, quick with a joke and a hard worker. He’d been well liked in the outfit even for their short acquaintance and, even if he hadn’t been, cowpunchers always mourned in commune at seeing one of their fellows laid low, even while silently thanking the fickle goddess that it hadn’t hadn’t happened to them.

  “Damn pox,” said Alex again, still fuming. A man of indomitable will and thereby accustomed to having his way, Boss Larson did not take the machinations of fortune lightly even when the forces of God and nature themselves were to blame.

  He crumpled the brim of his hat in a tightened fist and stalked out to the edge of the camp, standing with his back to his men, staring off into the wide open flatlands of the Wichita plains.

  When the boss had left, the other drovers peppered Mark and Randall with questions.

  “Did you see him?” “What did he say?” “Does he need anything?” and the like. Mark undertook to answer the questions as they were put to him. Randall, who found his stomach revolting against further contemplation on the matter of Billy’s miserable fate, crouched beside the poked at the glowing embers with a stick.

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  “We talked to him some,” Mark told the gathered outfit, “He sounds awful quiet. Hard to hear him at times. He told us not to open the door, insisted on it, actually. Said he didn’t want us getting his sick.”

  “Did he get the grub?” asked Cooky, who had taken some pride in being the only one able to really offer Billy something of substance.

  “He weren’t really in the eatin’ mood,” said Mark, hastily adding, “But we left it for him. I would be surprised if’n we go back this evening it’ll be gone.”

  “It’s eatin helps a body heal,” grumbled Cooky, “He ought’n be eatin.”

  “He ain’t gonna eat,” said Randall suddenly and every face turned to regard him, even Mark’s, “He ain’t got the appetite left. That’s how it is. At the end. No appetites left for anything, they just lay there heavin and sweatin, too tired to roll out of their own sick, too tired even take a sip of water. Just waitin for it all to stop.”

  “How you know so much about the pox, Randall?” asked a wide-eyed drover.

  “I’ve seen it,” said Randall.

  “I believe him,” said Mark, “Just the smell of the air ‘round that shack, fellas. God, smells like hell opened up, all the puke and rot-”

  “Enough of that talk,” interrupted Ned Bishop, the foreman, eager to cut off Mark’s embellished descriptions before they further deteriorated the morale of the outfit, “Boss is coming back.”

  Sure enough, Alex Larson, hat returned to its proper shape and place, stepped back into the midst of his men. He put his hands on his hips and spoke with the calm authority of man who’s reached a decision.

  “Billy is a good hand, and we’re all going to miss him,” he said, “But we’ve done all we can for him. It’s in God’s hands now. This herd, meanwhile, is still in ours and we’ve lingered here as long as is prudent. If Billy showed signs of getting any better, well- that’d be one thing. Things being what they are, though, and Billy’s recovery seeming less than likely, I’m making the call. It's time to move on. Tomorrow morning I want this outfit back on the trail for Fort Drudge.”

  His words met with solemn nods from the drovers. Billy was, by consensus, a lost cause and, being a lost cause, every man jack among the punchers would just as soon be as far away from the pox as God allowed.

  “Mr. Bishop, send out riders. Let’s get the herd rounded up tonight and ready to move come dawn. Mr. Geets, if I could speak with you for a moment?”

  Bishop snapped to form and began issuing orders like the seasoned professional he was. Randall, still sullen, dropped his poker into the fire and went after Larson.