The constable agreed; and, mounting when they had got out of the
timber, they rode off through the rain.




CHAPTER VIII

CONSTABLE FLETT'S SUSPICIONS

It was nearly six o'clock in the evening when George and his
companions, who had spent part of the day looking for the straying
stock, rode up to the Grant homestead through a vast stretch of grain.
This grew on the rich black soil they call "gumbo" in the West; but
here and there a belt of dark-colored summer fallow checkered the
strong green of the wheat and oats. Though he clung to the one-crop
system, Alan Grant was careful of his land. The fine brick house and
range of smart wooden buildings, the costly implements, which included
a gasoline tractor-plow, all indicated prosperity, and George
recognized that the rugged-faced man beside him had made a marked
success of his farming.

When the cattle had been secured, Flora Grant welcomed the new arrivals
graciously, and after a while they sat down to supper with the hired
men in a big room. It was plainly furnished, but there was everything
that comfort demanded, for the happy mean between bareness and
superfluity had been cleverly hit, and George thought Miss Grant was
responsible for this. He sat beside her at the foot of the long table
and noticed the hired hands' attitude toward her. It was respectful,
but not diffident. The girl had no need to assert herself; she was on