"Yes; must have found something wrong, I guess." She refolded her hands, and once more relapsed into silence.
It was the breaking of the ice, however.
"Where d'ye suppose the trouble could have been, Graham?" It was another late-comer, Bud Buck, young and narrow of hips, who spoke.
"At Blair's," was the answer. "The Big B is the closest."
"Blair?" The questioner puffed at his cigarette thoughtfully. "Guess I never heard of him."
"Must be a stranger in these parts, then," said Marcom. "Most everybody knows Tom Blair." He paused to give an all-including glance. "At least well enough to get a slice of his dough," he finished with a sarcastic laugh.
"Does he handle the pasteboards?" asked Buck, with interest.
"Tries to," contemptuously.
The curiosity of the youthful Bud was now thoroughly aroused.
"What kind of a fellow is he, anyway?" he went on. "Does he go it alone up at his ranch?"
At the last question Bill Marcom, discreetly silent, shifted his eyes in the direction of the foreman, and, following them, Bud surprised a covert glance between Graham and his wife. It was the latter who finally answered.
"Not exactly."
Buck was not without intuition, and he shifted to safer ground.
"Got much of a herd, has he?"
Marcom rolled a fresh cigarette skilfully, and drew the string of the tobacco pouch taut with his teeth.
"He did have, one time, but I don't believe he's got many left now. There's been a bunch lost there every storm I can remember. He don't keep any punchers to look after 'em, and he's never on hand himself. The woman and the kid," with a peculiar glance at the stout housekeeper, "saved 'em part of the time, but mostly they just drifted." The speaker blew a great cloud of smoke, and the veins at his temples swelled. "It's a shame, the way he neglects his stock and lets 'em starve and freeze!"
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."