“So Joan died?” he queried.

“Yep, and was buried under them two trees in front of the house.  I don’t think she lived long after they was married, but about that nobody knows.  They was clear off by themselves and there isn’t any one can tell about their life after they was married.  All we know is that Drew didn’t get over her dyin’.  He ain’t over it yet, and goes out to the old place every month or so to potter around the grave and keep the grass and the weeds off of it and clean the head-stone.”

The candle guttered wildly on the floor.  It had burnt almost to the wood and now the remnant of the wick stood in a little sprawling pool of grease white at the outer edges.

Bard yawned, and patted idly the blanket where it touched on the shape of the revolver beneath.  In another moment that candle would gutter out and they would be left in darkness.

He said:  “That’s the best yarn I’ve heard in a good many days; it’s enough to make any one sleepy—­so here goes.”

And he turned deliberately on his side.

Nash, his eyes staring with incredulity, sat up slowly among his blankets and his hand stole up toward the noose of the lariat.  A light snore reached him, hardly a snore so much as the heavy intake of breath of a very weary, sleeping man; yet the hand of Nash froze on the lariat.

“By God,” he whispered faintly to himself, “he ain’t asleep!”

And the candle flared wildly, leaped, and shook out.

CHAPTER XXI

THE SWIMMING OF THE SAVERACK

Over the face of Nash the darkness passed like a cold hand and a colder sense of failure touched his heart; but men who have ridden the range have one great power surpassing all others—­the power of patience.  As soundlessly as he had pushed himself up the moment before, he now slipped down in the blankets and resigned himself to sleep.

He knew that he would wake at the first hint of grey light and trusted that after the long ride of the day before his companion would still be fast asleep.  That half light would be enough for his work; but when he roused while the room was still scarcely more visible than if it were filled with a grey fog, he found Bard already up and pulling on his boots.

“How’d you sleep?” he growled, following the example of the tenderfoot.

“Not very well,” said the other cheerily.  “You see, that story of yours was so vivid in my mind that I stayed awake about all night, I guess, thinking it over.”

“I knew it,” murmured Nash to himself.  “He was awake all the time.  And
still-----”

If that thrown noose of the lariat had settled over the head and shoulders of the sham sleeper it would have made no difference whether he waked or slept—­in the end he would have sat before William Drew tied hand and foot.  If that noose had not settled?  The picture of the little piece of paper fluttering to the floor came back with a strange vividness to the mind of Nash, and he had to shrug his shoulders to shake the thought away.