dignified when she stopped and spoke to us; and the look with which he
favored MacRae was a peculiar one. It was simply a vagrant expression,
but as it flitted over his face it lacked nothing in the way of
surprised disapproval; I might go farther and say it was malignant--the
kind of look that makes a man feel like reaching for a weapon. At least,
that's the impression it made on me.

"I might fire that question back at you, Miss Rowan," I replied. "We're
both a long way from the home range. I was here a day or two ago. How
did you manage to keep out of sight--or have you just got in?"

"Yesterday, only," she returned. "We--you remember old Mammy Thomas,
don't you?--came over from Benton with the Baker freight outfit. I
expect to meet dad here, in a few days."

Her last sentence froze the words that were all ready to slip off the
end of my tongue, and made my grouch against MacRae crystallize into a
feeling akin to anger. Why couldn't the beggar stand his ground and
deliver the ugly tidings himself? That bunch of cottonwoods with the
new-made grave close by the dead horses seemed to rise up between us,
and I became speechless. I hadn't the nerve to stand there and tell her
she'd never see her father again this side of the pearly gates. Not I.
That was a job for somebody who could put his arms around her and kiss
the tears away from her eyes. Unless I read her wrong, there was only
one man who could make it easier for her if he were by, and he was
walking away as if it were none of his concern.

Something of this must have shown in my face, for she was beginning to
regard me curiously. I gathered my scattered wits and started to make
some attempt at conversation, but the man with the shoulder-straps