“But you do see, though,” relentlessly.  “You can’t help but see.”  The speaker started anew the restless, aimless pace.  “The country is full of us; all new countries are.”  He was still speaking hurriedly, tensely, as we tell of a murder or a ghastly tragedy; something which in duty we must confide, but which we hasten to have over.  “It’s easier to get here than to Mexico or to Canada, and until the country is settled, until people begin to suspect—­” He halted suddenly opposite the other, his face deathly pale, deathly tortured.  “In God’s name, don’t you understand now?” he questioned passionately.  “Must I tell you in so many words why I refused, why I don’t dare do anything else but refuse?”

“No, you don’t need to tell me.”  Absently, unconsciously, the rancher produced a red bandana handkerchief and wiped his face; then thrust it back into his pocket.  “I think I understand at last.”  His eyes had dropped and he did not raise them again to his companion.  “I’m sorry, very sorry, that I asked you; sorry most of all that—­” He halted diffidently, his great hands hanging loose at his side, his broad shoulders drooping wearily.  He was not glib of speech, at best, and this second blow was hard to bear.  A full half minute he stood so, hesitant, searching for words; then heavily, clumsily, he turned, started for the door.  “I really must be going,” he concluded.

Chantry did not ask him to stay, made no motion to prevent his going.  Tense, motionless, he stood where he had last paused, waited in silence until the visitor’s hand was upon the knob.

“Good-bye Landor,” he said then simply.

Not the words themselves, but something in the tone caused the rancher to halt, to look back.

“Good-day, you mean, rather,” he corrected.

“No, good-bye.  You will not see me again.”

“You don’t mean—­”

“No.  I’m too much of a coward for that, or I should have done so long ago.  I merely mean I’ll move on to-morrow.”

Face to face the two men stood staring at each other.  Seconds drifted by.  It was the doctor who spoke at last.

“God knows that if I could, I’d change with you even now, Landor,” he said repressedly.  “I’d change with you gladly.”  A moment he stood so, tense as a wire drawn to the point of breaking, ghastly tense; then of a sudden he went lax.  Instinctively his fingers sought his pockets, and there where he stood he started swiftly to roll a cigarette.

“Go, please,” he requested.  “Good-bye.”

CHAPTER IX

THE VOICE OF THE WILD