He just kept on working at that fence. But at last he said, "I go too." I won't say that I was exactly surprised. I figured I knew Joe. Maybe he thought the Moon was something like Texas or California. "You've got to know something special, Joe," I said patiently. "Like Dave, here. He knows all about air-conditioning." Joe's face remained as deadpan as if he were a wooden Indian rather than a real one. "I know plenty special," he answered after a moment. "Hunt—track—new place—good. Plenty game." Something in the glint of his black eyes told me that he was way back in his youth. Frank busted out laughing. So did I. But there was a faint lump in my throat, made up of all my memories of Joe White-skunk. Teaching me to ride and to shoot, not by long-winded explanations but by example—or perhaps more by letting me be part of him. It's kind of hard to explain. So I didn't want to say good-by to Joe. I knew that my brother didn't, either. We wanted to postpone it as long as possible. Besides we were a little worried about what might happen to him, left alone.
