THE BOX R RANCH


Mr. Rankin moved back from a well-discussed table, and, the room being
conveniently small, tilted his chair back against the wall. The
protesting creak of the ill-glued joints under the strain of his
ponderous figure was a signal for all the diners, and five other men
likewise drew away from around the board. Rankin extracted a match and a
stout jack-knife from the miscellaneous collection of useful articles in
his capacious pocket, carefully whittled the bit of wood to a point, and
picked his teeth deliberately. The five "hands," sun-browned, unshaven,
dissimilar in face as in dress, waited in expectation; but the
housekeeper, a shapeless, stolid-looking woman, wife of the foreman,
Graham, went methodically about the work of clearing the table. Rankin
watched her a moment indifferently; then without turning his head, his
eyes shifted in their narrow slits of sockets until they rested upon one
of the cowboys.

"What time was it you saw that smoke, Grannis?" he asked.

The man addressed paused in the operation of rolling a cigarette.

"'Bout an hour ago, I should say. I was just thinking of coming in to
dinner."

The lids met over Rankin's eyes, then the narrow slit opened.

"It was in the no'thwest you say, and seemed to be quite a way off?"

Grannis nodded.