The ranch house was lighted from top to bottom, abnormally brilliant, and as the Indian entered the odour of kerosene was strong in his nostrils.  In the kitchen as he passed through were the other two herders.  They sat side by side in uncomfortable inaction, their big sombreros in their hands; and with the suppression of those unused to death nodded him silent recognition.  The dining-room was empty, likewise the living-room; but as he mounted the stairs, he could hear the muffled catch of a woman’s sobs, and above them, intermittent, authoritative, the voice of a man speaking.  His moccasined feet gave no warning, and even after he had entered the room where the dead man lay none of the three who were already present knew that he was there.

Just within the doorway he paused and looked about him.  In one corner of the room, well away from the bed, sat Mary Landor.  She did not look up as he entered, apparently did not see him, did not see anything.  The first wild passion of grief past, she had lapsed into a sort of passive lethargy.  Her fingers kept picking at the edge of the loose dressing sack she had put on, and now and then her thin lips trembled; but that was all.

Only a glance the newcomer gave her, then his eyes shifted to the bed; shifted and halted and, unconsciously as he had done when Howard first broke the news, his feet came close together and his arms folded across his chest in characteristic, all-observing attention.  Not a muscle moved, he scarcely seemed to breathe.  He merely watched.

And this was what he saw:  The shape of a dead man lying as at first beneath the covers; only now the sheet had been raised until the face was hid.  Beside it, stretched out in abandon as she had thrown herself down, her head all but buried from view, was the girl Bess.  She was sobbing as though her heart would break:  sobbing as though unconscious of another human being in the world.  Above her, leaning over her, was the form of a man:  Craig.  His uncle had brought his belongings from the tiny town the day before, and even at this time his linen and cravat were immaculate.  He was looking down at the little woman before him, looking and hesitating as one choosing between good and evil.

“Bess,” he was saying, “you must not.  You’ll make yourself sick.  Besides, it’s nearly morning and people will be coming.  Don’t do so; please!”

No answer, no indication that he had been heard; only the muffled, racking, piteous sobs.

“Bess,” insistently, “Bess!  Listen to me.  I can’t have you do so.  Uncle Landor wouldn’t like it, I know he wouldn’t.  He’d be sorry if he knew.  Be brave, girlie.  You’re not alone yet.”

Still no response of word or of action.  Still the dainty, curved shoulders trembled and were quiet and trembled again.

The man’s hand dropped to the coverlet beside him.  His face went very close.