Darkness was falling when at last Rankin clambered out to the surface.

“Another blanket, Ben, please.”

Without a glance beneath, he wrapped the object under the old gunny-sack round and round with the rough wool winding-sheet, and, carrying it to the edge of the grave, himself descended clumsily and placed it gently at his feet.  The pit was deep, and in getting out he slipped back twice; but he said nothing.  Outside, he paused a moment, looking at the boy gravely.

“Anything you wish to say, Benjamin?”

The lad returned the gaze with equal gravity.

“I don’t know of anything, sir.”

The man paused a moment longer.

“Nor I, Ben,” he said gently.

Again the spade resumed its work; and the impassive earth returned dully to its former resting-place.  Dusk came on, but Rankin did not look about him until the mound was neatly rounded; then he turned to where he had left the little boy so bravely erect.  But the small figure was not standing now; instead, it was prone on the ground amid the dust and ashes.

“Ben!” said Rankin, gently.  “Ben!”

No answer.

“Ben!” he repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

For a moment a small thin face appeared above the dishevelled figure, and a great sob shook the little frame.  Then the head disappeared again.

“I can’t help it, sir,” wailed a muffled voice.  “She was my mamma!”

CHAPTER IV

BEN’S NEW HOME

Supper was over at the Box R Ranch.  From the tiny lean-to the muffled rattle of heavy table-ware proclaimed the fact that Ma Graham was putting things in readiness for breakfast.  Beside the sheet-iron heater in the front room, her husband, carefully swaddled in a big checked apron with the strings tied in a bow under his left ear, was busily engaged in dressing the half-dozen prairie chickens he had trapped that day.  As fast as he removed the feathers he thrust them into the stove, and the pungent odor mingled with the suggestive tang of the bacon that had been the foundation of the past supper, and with the odor of cigarettes with which the other four men were permeating the place.

Graham critically held up to the light the bird upon which he had just been operating, removed a few scattered feathers, and, with practised hand, attacked its successor.

“If I were doing this job for myself,” he commented, “I’d skin the beasts.  Life is too blamed short to waste it in pulling out feathers!”

Grannis, the new-comer from no one knew where, smiled.

“It would look to me that you were doing it,” he remarked.  “I’d like to ask for information, who is if you ain’t?”

The clatter of dishes suddenly ceased, and Graham’s labor stopped in sympathy.

“My boy,” he asked in reply, “were you ever married?”

Beneath its coat of tan, Grannis’s face flushed; but he did not answer.