slouched on ahead toward the gap in the encircling trees into which
Lonesome Pete had disappeared earlier in the afternoon.

Conniston saw that Argyl Crawford was standing at her father's side
and that she was smiling; he saw that Hapgood was laughing openly. And
then he turned and strode on after his guide, conscious that the blood
was creeping up into his face and at the same time that he could not
"back down."

The graveled road wound through the pines for an eighth of a mile,
leaving the bench land and finding its way into a hollow cleared of
trees. Here was a long, low, rambling building--a stable, no doubt.
At each end of the stable was a stock-corral. And at the edge of the
clearing was another building, long and very low, with one single door
and several little square windows. A stove-pipe protruded from the far
end of this house, and from it rose a thin spiral of smoke.

"The Ol' Man said I was to show you your bunk," Rawhide Jones muttered
under his breath. "You're to have the one as was Benny's. Benny got
kilt some time back."

He flung the door open and entered. Conniston, at his heels, paused a
moment, staring about him. A man in dingy-blue undershirt, the sleeves
rolled back upon forearms remarkable for their knotting, swelling
muscles, was frying great thick steaks upon the top of the stove,
enveloped in the smoke and odor of his own cooking. In the middle of
the room was a long table, covered with worn oil-cloth, set out with
plates and cups of heavy white ware and with black wooden-handled
knives and forks. Running up and down each side of the one
unpartitioned room were narrow bunks, a row close to the floor,