“Kurt Dorn, don’t dare to—­to say that again!”

She ceased bathing his arm, and looked up at him suddenly quite pale.

“I apologize.  I am only bitter,” he said.  “Don’t mind what I say....  It’s so good of you—­to do this.”

Then in silence Lenore dressed his wound, and if her heart did beat unwontedly, her fingers were steady and deft.  He thanked her, with moody eyes seeing far beyond her.

“When I lie—­over there—­with—­”

“If you go!” she interrupted.  He was indeed hopeless.  “I advise you to rest a little.”

“I’d like to know what becomes of Glidden,” he said.

“So should I. That worries me.”

“Weren’t there a lot of cowboys with guns?”

“So many that there’s no need for you to go out—­and start another fight.”

“I did start it, didn’t I?”

“You surely did,” She left him then, turning in the doorway to ask him please to be quiet and let the day go by without seeking those excited men again.  He smiled, but he did not promise.

For Lenore the time dragged between dread and suspense.  From her window she saw a motley crowd pass down the lane to the main road.  No harvesters were working.  At the noon meal only her mother and the girls were present.  Word had come that the I.W.W. men were being driven from “Many Waters.”  Mrs. Anderson worried, and Lenore’s sisters for once were quiet.  All afternoon the house was lifeless.  No one came or left.  Lenore listened to every little sound.  It relieved her that Dorn had remained in his room.  Her hope was that the threatened trouble had been averted, but something told her that the worst was yet to come.

It was nearly supper-time when she heard the men returning.  They came in a body, noisy and loitering, as if reluctant to break away from one another.  She heard the horses tramp into the barns and the loud voices of drivers.

When she went down-stairs she encountered her father.  He looked impressive, triumphant!  His effort at evasion did not deceive Lenore.  But she realized at once that in this instance she could not get any news from him.  He said everything was all right and that I.W.W. men were to be deported from Washington.  But he did not want any supper, and he had a low-voiced, significant interview with Dorn.  Lenore longed to know what was pending.  Dorn’s voice, when he said at his door, “Anderson, I’ll go!” was ringing, hard, and deadly.  It frightened Lenore.  Go where?  What were they going to do?  Lenore thought of the vigilantes her father had organized.

Supper-time was an ordeal.  Dorn ate a little; then excusing himself, he went back to his room.  Lenore got through the meal somehow, and, going outside, she encountered Jake.  The moment she questioned him she knew something extraordinary had taken place or was about to take place.  She coaxed and entreated.  For once Jake was hard to manage.  But the more excuses he made, the more he evaded her, the greater became Lenore’s need to know.  And at last she wore the cowboy out.  He could not resist her tears, which began to flow in spite of her.