Again, as beside the girl, there was a mute, throbbing lapse; then, similarly before there could be an answer, upon the tense silence there broke the swift pat of moccasined feet, and he was gone.

CHAPTER XVIII

REWARD

The month was late September.  The time, evening.  The place, the ranch house of a rawboned Yankee named Hawkins.  Upon the scene at the hour the supper table was spread appeared a traveller in an open road waggon.  The vehicle was covered with dust.  The team which drew it were dust-stained likewise, and in addition, on belly and legs, were covered with a white powder-like frost where the sweat had oozed to the hair tips and dried.  Without announcing his arrival or deigning the formality of asking permission, the newcomer unhitched and put his team in the barn.  From a convenient bin he took out a generous feed, and from a stack beside the eaves he brought them hay for the night.  This done, he started for the house.  A minute later, again without form of announcement or seeking permission, he opened the ranch house door and stepped inside.

Within the room, beside a table with an oilcloth cover, four men were eating.  A fifth, a dark-skinned Mexican, was standing by a stove in one corner baking pancakes.  All looked up as the door opened.

Then, curiosity satisfied, the eyes of all save one, the proprietor, Hawkins, returned to their plates, and the rattle of steel on heavy queensware proceeded.

“Good-evening,” recognised the Yankee laconically.  He hitched along his chair until a space was clear at his elbow.  “Draw up and fall to, stranger.  Bring the gentleman a chair, Pete.”

In silence the Mexican obeyed, and in equal silence returned to his work.

Appetites are keen on the prairie, and not until the meal was complete was there further conversation.  Then after, one by one, the cowmen had filed out of doors, the host produced two corn-cob pipes from a shelf on the wall and tendered one across the littered table.

“Smoke?” he again invited laconically.

The visitor fumbled in the pockets of his coat and drew out a couple of cigars.

“Better have one of these instead,” he suggested.

Hawkins accepted in silence, and thereafter—­for cigars were a rarity on the frontier—­puffed half the length of the weed in wordless content.  The Mexican went impassively about his work, cleared the table and washed the dishes methodically.  The labour complete, he rolled a cigarette swiftly and, followed by a vanishing trail of blue, disappeared likewise out of doors.  Then, and not until then, the visitor introduced himself.

“My name’s Manning, Bob Manning,” he said.  “I run the store over at the Centre.”

The host scrutinised his guest, deliberately, reminiscently

“I thought there was something familiar about you,” he commented at last.  “I haven’t seen you for twenty years; but I remember you now.  You’re one of the bunch who was with Bill Landor that time he picked up the two kids.”