"I am digging her grave, sir."

For a time Rankin did not speak or stir. Amid the stubbly beard the
great jaws closed, until it seemed the pipe-stem must be broken. His
eyes narrowed, as when, before starting, he had questioned the cowboy
Grannis; then of a sudden he rose and laid a detaining hand upon the
worker's shoulder. He understood at last.

"Stop a minute, son," he said. "I want to talk with you."

The lad looked up.

"How did it happen--the fire and your mother's death?"

No answer, only the same strangely scrutinizing look.

Rankin repeated the question a bit curtly.

Ben Blair calmly removed the man's hand from his shoulder and looked him
fairly in the eyes.

"Why do you wish to know, sir?" he asked.

The big man made no answer. Why did he wish to know? What answer could
he give? He paced back and forth across the narrow confines of the four
sod walls. Once he paused, gazing at the little lad questioningly, not
as one looks at a child but as man faces man; then, tramp, tramp, he
paced on again. At last, as suddenly as before, he halted, and glanced
sidewise at the uncompleted grave.