Like a statue, silent again as death, the man watched as the dark spot on the horizon grew dimmer and dimmer until it faded at last into the all-surrounding brown.

CHAPTER X

THE CURSE OF THE CONQUERED

It was late, very late on the prairie, when How Landor returned that evening.  The herd safely corralled for the night, he rode slowly toward the ranch house, and, without leaving the pony’s back, opened and closed the gate of the barb wire fence surrounding the yard and approached the house.  There was a bright light in the living-room, and, still without dismounting, he paused before the uncurtained window and looked in.  Mrs. Landor, looking even more faded and helpless than usual, sat holding her hands at one side of the sheet-iron heater, and opposite her, his feet on the top rim of the stove, sat Craig.  The man was smoking a cigarette, and even through the tiny-paned glass the air of the room looked blue.  Obviously the visitor and his aunt were not finding conversation easy, and the former appeared distinctly bored.  Neither Landor himself nor the girl was anywhere visible, and, after a moment, the spectator moved on around the corner.  The dining-room as he passed was dark, likewise the kitchen, and the rider made the complete circuit of the house, pausing at last under a certain window on the second floor facing the south.  It was the girl’s room, and, although the shade was drawn, a dim light was burning behind.  For perhaps a minute the man on the barebacked broncho hesitated, looking up; then rolling his wide-brimmed hat into a cylinder he moved very close to the weather-boarded wall.  The building was low, and, by stretching a bit, the tip of the roll in his hand reached the second story.  He tapped twice on the bottom of the pane.

No answer, but of a sudden the room went dark.

Tap! tap! repeated the hat brim gently.

Still no answer.

Again the man hesitated, and, the night air being a bit frosty, the pony stamped impatiently.

“Bess,” said a low voice, “it is I, How.  Won’t you tell me good-night?”

This time there was response.  The curtain lifted and the sash was opened; a face appeared, very white against the black background.

“Good-night, How,” said a voice obediently.

The man settled back in his seat and the sombrero was unrolled.

“Nothing wrong, is there, Bess?” he hesitated.  “You’re not sick?”

“No, there’s nothing wrong,” monotonously.  “I’m a bit tired, is all.”

For a long minute the man said nothing, merely sat there, his black head bare in the starlight, looking up at her.  Repressed human that he was, there seemed to him nothing now to say, nothing adequate.  Meanwhile the pony was growing more and more impatient.  A tiny hoof beat at the half-frozen ground rhythmically.

“All right, then, Bess,” he said at last.  “You mustn’t sit there in the window.  It’s getting chilly.  Good-night.”