"I started to tell you, ma'am, when that infant interrupted, that
the cowmen don't aim to quit business yet a while. They've drawn
a dead-line, Miss Messiter,"

"A dead-line?"

"Yes, ma'am, beyond which no sheep herder is to run his bunch."

"And if he does?" the girl asked, open eyed.

" He don't do it twict, ma'am. Why don't you pass the fritters to
Miss Messiter, Slim?"

"And about this Bannister Who is he?"

Her innocent question seemed to ring a bell for silence; seemed
to carry with it some hidden portent that stopped idle
conversation as a striking clock that marks the hour of an
execution.

The smile that had been gay grew grim, and men forgot the subject
of their light, casual talk. It was Sothern that answered her,
and she observed that his voice was grave, his face studiously
without expression.

"Mr. Bannister, ma'am, is a sheepman."

"So I understood, but " Her eyes traveled swiftly round the
table, and appraised the sudden sense of responsibility that had
fallen on these reckless, careless frontiersmen. "I am wondering