Mrs. Starr was getting supper when Waring returned to the house.

“Any of the boys coming in with Jasper?” he queried.

“Why, nobody except Pete.  Pete’s been layin’ off.  He claims his horse stepped in a gopher hole and threw him.  Jasper took him along, feelin’ like he wanted some one on account of his rheumatics.  Jasper gets so stiff ridin’ that sometimes he can hardly get on his horse.  Mebby you noticed Pete’s pony, that chunky bay in the corral—­lame forward.”

“Yes, I noticed that.  But that pony didn’t step in a gopher hole.  He was ridden down by some one in a hurry to get somewhere.  He cast a shoe and went tender on the rocks.”

Mrs. Starr stared at Waring.

He shook his head and smiled.  “I don’t know.  I can only guess at it.”

“Well, you’ll stay for supper—­and you can talk to Jasper.  He’s worried.”

“Thank you.  And would you mind asking this man Pete in to supper with us?”

“I figured to, him being with Jasper and not feeling right well.”

About sundown Starr rode in.  Waring helped him from his horse.  They shook hands in silence.  The old cattleman knew at once why Waring had come, but he had no inkling of what was to follow.

The cowboy, Pete, took care of the horses.  A little later he clumped into the house and took a seat in a corner.  Waring paid no attention to him, but talked with Starr about the grazing and the weather.

Just before supper Starr introduced Waring.

The cowboy winced at Waring’s grip.  “Heard tell of you from the boys,” he said.

“You want to ride over to our place,” said Waring pleasantly.  “Pat and I will show you some pretty land under fence.”

The cowboy’s eyelids flickered.  How could this man Waring speak of Pat that way, when he must know that Pat had been killed?  Everybody knew that.  Why didn’t Mrs. Starr or Starr say something?  But Starr was limping to the table, and Mrs. Starr was telling them to come and have supper.

In the glow of the hanging lamp, Starr’s lined, grizzled features were as unreadable as carved bronze.  Waring, at his left, sat directly opposite the cowboy, Pete.  The talk drifted from one subject to another, but no one mentioned the killing of Pat.  Waring noted the cowboy’s lack of appetite.

“I looked over your saddle-stock this afternoon,” said Waring.  “Noticed you had a bay out there, white blaze on his nose.  You don’t want to sell that pony, do you?”

“Oh, that’s Pete’s pony, Baldy,” said Mrs. Starr.

Starr glanced at Waring.  The horse Baldy was good enough as cow-ponies went, but Waring had not ridden over to buy horses.

“I aim to keep that cayuse,” said Pete, swallowing hard.

“But every man has his price,”—­and Waring smiled.  “I’ll make my offer; a hundred, cash.”

“Not this evenin’,” said the cowboy.

Waring felt in the pocket of his flannel shirt.  “I’ll go you one better.  I’ll make it a hundred, cash, and this to boot.”  And his arm straightened.