When night came Conniston trudged from the corrals to the bunk-house and his evening meal devoutly thankful that the long day was gone.  His hand pained him constantly, and in the sharp twinges which shot through it the lesser hurt of his cut cheek was forgotten.  The greater part of the other men was there before him.  As he stepped in at the door they were dragging their chairs noisily up to the table.  Brayley, one eye swollen almost shut, his lips thick like a negro’s with the blows which had hammered them, had just taken his seat.  The men’s eyes were quick to catch the bruised countenance of the man at the door, and ran swiftly from it to Brayley’s face and back again.  One man chuckled aloud, Toothy giggled like a girl, and the others grinned broadly.  For a moment Brayley’s face darkened ominously.  Then his frown passed, and he turned about in his chair toward the door.

“Hello, Con,” he said, quietly.

“Hello, Brayley,” Conniston answered, in the same tone.

Brayley’s eyes went back to the men at the table, shifting quickly from one to another.  He ran his tongue along his swollen lips, but said no word until Conniston had washed and taken his own chair.  Then he spoke, his words coming with slow distinctness.

“Conniston jumped me this mornin.’  I had a lickin’ comin’ to me.  You boys know why.  An’ I got it.”

He stopped suddenly, his eyes watchful upon the faces about him.  Conniston saw that they were no longer grinning, but as serious, as watchful, as Brayley’s.

“That was between me an’ Conniston.  There ain’t goin’ to be no makin’ fun an’ fool remarks about it.  He done it square, an’ I’m glad he done it!  If there’s any other man here as thinks he can do it I’ll take him on right now!”

Again he paused abruptly, again he studied the grave faces and speculative eyes intent upon his own.  No man spoke.  And Conniston noticed that no man smiled.

“All right,” grunted Brayley.  “That ends it.  Cookie, for the love of Mike, are you goin’ to keep us waitin’ all night for them spuds?”

The meal passed with no further reference, open or covert, to the thing which was uppermost in the minds of all.  Many a curious glance, however, went to where Conniston sat.  He was conscious of them even when he did not see them, understood that a new appraisal of him was being made swiftly, that his fellow-workers were carefully readjusting their first conceptions and judgments of him.

When he had finished eating, Conniston went straight to his bunk.  He had no desire for conversation; he did want both rest and a chance to think.  He was straightening out his tumbled covers when Lonesome Pete tapped him upon the shoulder.

“No hay for yours, Con,” he grinned.  “Not yet.  Miss Argyl wants you to come up to the house.  Right away, she said, as soon as you’d et.  She said special she was in a hurry, an’ you wasn’t to waste time puttin’ on your glad rags.”