The device which the big man had evolved for this purpose, and had used on previous similar occasions, was a simple triangular snow-plough several feet in width, with guiding handles behind.  Comparatively narrow as was the ribbon path cleared by this appliance, its length was only limited by the endurance of the horses and the driver, and in the course of the day many an acre could be uncovered.  Half an hour after sunrise, the eight outfits thus equipped were lined up side by side and headed due northwest to a range which had been but little pastured.

For five miles straight as a taut line they went, leaving behind them eight brown stripes alternating with bands of white between.  Then back and forth, back and forth, for the distance of another mile they vibrated until it was noon, when eight more connecting brown ribbons were stretched beside their predecessors back to the ranch-house.  In the afternoon the labor was repeated, until by night the clearing, a gigantic mottled fan with an abnormally long handle, lay in vivid contrast against the surrounding white.

The second day was the same, except that but seven bands stretched out behind the moving squad.  Rankin, game as he was, could scarcely put one foot ahead of the other, and in consequence, changing his tactics, he mounted the old buckboard and departed on a tour of inspection toward the north range.  He was late in returning, and, as usual, very taciturn; but after supper, as he and Ben were smoking in friendly silence by the kitchen fire, he turned to the younger man.

“Someone stayed at the north range last night,” he announced abruptly.  “He slept there and had a fire.”

Ben showed no surprise.  “I thought so, probably,” he replied.  “Late this afternoon I ran across a trail leading in from the west along our clearing, and headed that way.  It was one lone chain of footprints.”

Rankin shivered, and replenished the fire.  His long drive had chilled him through and through.

“I suppose you have an idea who made that trail?” he said.

Though each knew that the other had heard the details of Pete’s death, neither had mentioned the incident.  To do so had seemed superfluous.  Now, however, each realized the thought in the other’s mind, and chose not to avoid it.

“Yes,” answered Ben, simply.  “I suppose it was made by Tom Blair.”

Never before had Rankin heard Benjamin Blair speak that name.  He stretched back heavily in his chair and lit his pipe afresh.

“Ben,” he said, “I’m getting old.  I never began to realize the fact until this Winter; but I sha’n’t last many more years.”  Puff, puff went two twin clouds of smoke toward the ceiling.  “Civilization has some advantages over the frontier, and this is one of them:  it’s kinder to the old.”

Never before had Rankin spoken in this way, and the other understood the strength of his conviction.

“You work too hard,” he said soberly, though he felt the inadequacy of the trite remark.  “It’s unnecessary.  I wish you wouldn’t do it.”