A second passed; then the plucking of feathers was continued.

“I reckon you’ve never been, though,” Graham went on, “else you’d never ask that question.”

During the remainder of the evening, Grannis sought no further information; and to Ma Graham’s narrow life a new interest was added.

Ordinarily the cowboys went to their bunks in an adjoining shed almost directly after supper, but this evening, without giving a reason, they lingered.  The housekeeper finished her work, and, coming into the main room, took a chair and sat down, her hands folded in her lap.  The grouse dressed, Graham ranged them in a row upon the lean-to table, removed the apron, and lit his pipe in silence.  The cowboys rolled fresh cigarettes and puffed at them steadily, the four stumps close together glowing in the dimness of the room.  As everywhere upon the prairie, the quiet was almost a thing to feel.

At last, when the silence had become oppressive, the foreman took the pipe from his mouth and blew a short puff of smoke.

“Seems like the boss ought to’ve got back before this,” he said with a sidelong glance at his wife.

Ma Graham nodded corroboration.

“Yes; must have found something wrong, I guess.”  She refolded her hands, and once more relapsed into silence.

It was the breaking of the ice, however.

“Where d’ye suppose the trouble could have been, Graham?” It was another late-comer, Bud Buck, young and narrow of hips, who spoke.

“At Blair’s,” was the answer.  “The Big B is the closest.”

“Blair?” The questioner puffed at his cigarette thoughtfully.  “Guess I never heard of him.”

“Must be a stranger in these parts, then,” said Marcom.  “Most everybody knows Tom Blair.”  He paused to give an all-including glance.  “At least well enough to get a slice of his dough,” he finished with a sarcastic laugh.

“Does he handle the pasteboards?” asked Buck, with interest.

“Tries to,” contemptuously.

The curiosity of the youthful Bud was now thoroughly aroused.

“What kind of a fellow is he, anyway?” he went on.  “Does he go it alone up at his ranch?”

At the last question Bill Marcom, discreetly silent, shifted his eyes in the direction of the foreman, and, following them, Bud surprised a covert glance between Graham and his wife.  It was the latter who finally answered.

“Not exactly.”

Buck was not without intuition, and he shifted to safer ground.

“Got much of a herd, has he?”

Marcom rolled a fresh cigarette skilfully, and drew the string of the tobacco pouch taut with his teeth.

“He did have, one time, but I don’t believe he’s got many left now.  There’s been a bunch lost there every storm I can remember.  He don’t keep any punchers to look after ’em, and he’s never on hand himself.  The woman and the kid,” with a peculiar glance at the stout housekeeper, “saved ’em part of the time, but mostly they just drifted.”  The speaker blew a great cloud of smoke, and the veins at his temples swelled.  “It’s a shame, the way he neglects his stock and lets ’em starve and freeze!”