The blood coursed hot in the veins of Bud Buck.

“Why don’t somebody step in?”

There was a meaning silence, broken at last by Graham.

“We would’ve—­with a rope—­if it hadn’t been for the boss.  He tried to help the fellow; went over there lots of times himself—­weather colder than the devil, too, and with the wind and sleet so bad you couldn’t see the team ahead of you—­until one time last Winter Blair came home full, and caught him there.”  The narrative paused, and the black pipe puffed reminiscently.  “The boss never said much, but I guess they must have had quite a session.  Anyway, Rankin never went again, and from the way he looked when he got back here, half froze, and the mustangs beat out, I reckon Blair never knew how close he come to a necktie party that day.”

Again silence fell, and remained unbroken until Graham suddenly sprang to his feet, and with “That’s him now!  I could tell that old buckboard if I was in my grave!” hurried on coat and hat and disappeared into the night.  A minute more and the door through which he had passed opened slowly, and the figure of a small boy, wrapped like an Indian in a big blanket, stepped timidly inside and stood blinking in the light.

In anticipation of a very different arrival the housekeeper had risen to her feet, and now in surprise, arms akimbo, she stood looking curiously at the stranger.  In this land at this time the young of every other animal native thereto was common, but a child, a white child, was a novelty indeed.  Many a cow-puncher, bachelor among bachelors, could testify that it had been years since he had seen the like.  But Ma Graham was not a bachelor, and in her the maternal instinct, though repressed, was strong.  It was barely an instant before she was at the little lad’s side, unwinding the blanket with deft hands.

“Who be you, anyway, and where’d you come from?” she exclaimed.

The child observed her gravely.

“Benjamin Blair’s my name.  I came with the man.”

The husk was off the lad ere this, and the woman was rubbing his small hands vigorously.

“Cold, ain’t you?  Come right over to the fire!” herself leading the way.  “And hungry—­I’ll bet you’re hungrier than a wolf!”

The lad nodded.  “Yes, ma’am.”

The woman straightened up and looked down at her charge.

“Of course you are.  All little boys are hungry.”  She cast a challenging glance around the group of interested spectators.

“Fix the fire, one of you, while I get something hot for the kid,” she said, and ambled toward the lean-to.