"I never had a brother, you know, bein' an only child," mused Jack, while he and Ennis sat gazing into the campfire in the silent, dying light of the day; shifting slightly in the lawnchair, Jack continued, "I sometimes wondered what that mighta been like...havin' someone to play with, an' also someone to look after you, and to look after..."...Jack's voice drifted as Ennis discerned a shadow, not only from the evening's twilight, pass over his bud's aging face.
Ennis, who had had a damn handful of a brother in K.E., didn't know how to register this odd, melancholy reflection of Jack's (he and K.E. had barely tolerated one another, and were glad to get out of each other's hair when the opportunity arose), but he sensed the longing in his one and only cowboy that he never knew existed, and felt a kindred kindness rise thereby in his own breast.
"It's late in the day, friend," Ennis said, leaning expectantly to directly face Jack, "but I can be a brother to ya, if that's whatchya want"; and in saying so, he reached out to gently touch Jack's pensive cheek, in the way that Jack had taught him so long ago.