Meanwhile, back at the scene of the tragedy, there had been feverish action.  Many of the cowboys were already about the barns, and lanterns gleamed in the horse corral.  Within the house, in the nearest bunk where they had laid him, stretched the proprietor of the ranch.  About him were grouped Grannis, Graham, and Ma Graham.  The latter was weeping hysterically—­her head buried in her big checked apron, the great mass of her body vibrating with the effort.  As Ben approached, her husband glanced up.  Upon his face was the dull unreasoning indecision of a steer which had lost its leader; an animal passivity which awaited command.

“Rankin’s dead,” he announced dully.  “He’s hit here.”  A withered hand indicated a spot on the left breast.  “He went quick.”

Grannis said nothing, and walking up Ben Blair stopped beside the bunk.  He took a long look at the kindly heavy face of the only man he had ever called friend; but not a feature of his own face relaxed, not a muscle quivered.  Grannis watched him fixedly, almost with fascination.  Gray-haired gambler and man of fortune that he was, he realized as Graham could never do the emotions which so often lie just back of the locked countenance of a human being; realized it, and with the grim carelessness of a frontiersman admired it.

Of a sudden there was a grinding of frosty snow in the outer yard, a confused medley of human voices, a snorting of horses; and, turning, Ben went to the door.  One glance told him the meaning of the cluster of cowboys.  He walked out toward them deliberately.

“Boys,” he said steadily, “put up your horses.  You couldn’t find a mountain in the darkness to-night.”  A pause.  “Besides,” slowly, “this is my affair.  Put them up and go to bed.”

For a moment there was silence.  The hearers could scarcely believe their ears.

“You mean we’re to let him go?” queried a hesitating voice at last.

Blair folded up the broad brim of his hat and looked from face to face as it was revealed by the uncertain light from the window.

“I mean what I said,” he repeated evenly.  “I’ll attend to this matter myself.”

For a moment again there was silence, but only for a moment.

“No you won’t!” blazed a voice suddenly.  “Rankin was the whitest man that ever owned a brand.  Just because the kyote that shot him lived with your mother won’t save him.  I’m going—­and now.”

Quicker than a cat, so swiftly that the other cowboys scarcely realized what was happening, the long gaunt Benjamin was at the speaker’s side.  With a leap he had him by the throat, had dragged him from the back of the horse, and held him at arm’s length.

“Freeman,”—­the voice was neither raised nor lowered, but steady as the drip of falling water,—­“Freeman, you know better than that, and you know you know better.”  The grip of the long left hand on the throat tightened.  The fingers of the right locked.  “Say so—­quick!”