The foreman was by no means a responsive soul, yet, watching, there instinctively crept over him a feeling akin to awe of this other silent human.  There was the mystery of death itself in that motionless, listening shadow.

“It was just before I came over to tell you that Mrs. Landor raised the house,” he explained.  “She woke up in the night and found the boss so—­and cold already.”  Unconsciously his voice had lowered.  “She screamed like a mad woman, and ran down-stairs in her nightdress, chattering so we could hardly understand her.”  He slapped at his baggy chaperajos with his quirt absently.  “That’s all I know, except there’s no particular use to hurry.  It’s all over now, and he never knew what took him.”

Silently as before the aperture in the tent opened and closed and the listener disappeared; to reappear a moment later with a curled-up woolly bundle in his arms.  Without a word of explanation he strode toward the barn, leaving Howard staring after him uncertainly.  Listening, the latter heard a suppressed little puppyish protest, as though its maker were very sleepy, a moment later the soft, recognising whinny of a broncho, and then, startlingly sudden as the figure had first emerged from the tent, it appeared again, mounted, by his side.

For half the distance to the ranch house not a word was said; then of a sudden Howard drew his horse to a walk meaningly.

“I suppose it’s none of my business,” he commented without preface, “but unless I’m badly mistaken there’ll be hell to pay around the Buffalo Butte now.”

Again, as at the tent door, his companion made no answer; merely waited for the something he knew was on the other’s mind.  The east was beginning to lighten now, and against the reddening sky his dark face appeared almost pale.

Howard shifted in his saddle seat and inspected the ground at his right as intently as though there might be jewels scattered about.

“The boss’s relative—­Craig,” he added, “has taken possession there as completely as if he’d owned the place a lifetime instead of been a visitor two days.”  The long moustaches that gave the man’s face an unmeritedly ferocious expression lifted characteristically.  “I like you, How, or I wouldn’t stick my bill into your affairs.  That boy is going to make you trouble, take my word for it.”

Even then there was no response; but the overseer did not seem surprised or offended.  Instead, the load he had to impart off his mind, his manner indicated distinct relief.  But one thing more was necessary to his material comfort—­and that solace was at hand.  Taking a great bite of plug tobacco, a chew that swelled one of his thin cheeks like a wen, he lapsed into his normal attitude of disinterested reverie.