Not a word did Ben speak as they rode back to the ranch-house; not once did he look at his companion.  At the door he held out his hand.

“Good-bye,” he said simply.

“Good-bye,” she echoed feebly.

Ben made his adieu to Mrs. Baker, and then rode out to the barn where Scotty was working.  “Good-bye,” he repeated.  “We’ll probably not meet again before you go.”  The expression upon the Englishman’s face caught his eye.  “Don’t,” he said.  “I’d rather not talk now.”

Scotty gripped the extended hand and shook it heartily.

“Good-bye,” he said, with misty eyes.

The youth wheeled the buckskin and headed for home.  Florence and her mother were still standing in the doorway watching him, and he lifted his big sombrero; but he did not glance at them, nor turn his head in passing.

CHAPTER XII

A DEFERRED RECKONING

Time had dealt kindly with the saloon of Mick Kennedy.  A hundred electric storms had left it unscathed.  Prairie fires had passed it by.  Only the relentless sun and rain had fastened the mark of their handiwork upon it and stained it until it was the color of the earth itself.  Within, man had performed a similar office.  The same old cottonwood bar stretched across the side of the room, taking up a third of the available space; but no stranger would have called it cottonwood now.  It had become brown like oak from continuous saturation with various colored liquids; and upon its surface, indelible record of the years, were innumerable bruises and dents where heavy bottles and glasses had made their impress under impulse of heavier hands.  The continuous deposit of tobacco smoke had darkened the ceiling, modulating to a lighter tone on the walls.  The place was even gloomier than before, and immeasurably filthier under the accumulated grime of a dozen years.  Once in their history the battered tables had been recovered, but no one would have guessed it now.  The gritty decks of cards had been often replaced, but from their appearance they might have been those with which Tom Blair long ago bartered away his honor.

Time had left its impress also on bartender Mick.  A generous sprinkling of gray was in his hair; the single eye was redder and fiercer, seeming by its blaze to have consumed the very lashes surrounding it; the cheeks were sunken, the great jaw and chin prominent from the loss of teeth.  Otherwise Mick was not much changed.  The hand which dealt out his wares, which insisted on their payment to the last nickel, was as steady as of yore.  His words were as few, his control of the reckless and often drunken frequenters was as perfect.  He was the personified spirit of the place—­crafty, designing, relentless.

Bob Hoyt, the foreman, shambled into Mick’s lair at the time of day when the lights were burning and smoking on the circling shelf.  He peered through the haze of tobacco smoke at the patrons already present, received a word from one and a stare from another, but from none an invitation to join the circle.