e
car at night. Serve him right fur bein' a sheep man. An' yet I knowed
Nels Rankin, five, six years ago, when there wa'n't a more respectable
cuss in the hull San Juan."

In passing the Pulcifer ranch they made talk about the hay-cutting, for
a reaper sent its locustlike click from a brown stretch of bottom land.
Pulcifer had a good stand of hay, they agreed, and probably he wouldn't
have such a big winter kill this year if he didn't act the fool and sell
off too much of it. You couldn't expect to bring cattle through fat on
cottonwood browse.

So they lamely gossiped the miles away in strained avoidance of the big
event. Only once did Ewing look back, while Ben was occupied with the
horses at a ford. The rocky wall at the verge of their lake was
intimately near, despite the miles they had come, and below it, through
a notch in the hills, he could see a spot of yellow--the new shake roof
on a shed they had built that summer near the cabin. Then his eyes were
ahead to where Pierce's wagon crawled up a hill.

Ben whipped up the horses and burst into song:

"One evening I was strolling through the city of the dead;
I viewed where all around me their peaceful forms were spread."

He took the thing at a quick, rollicking tempo, as one resolved to be
gay under difficulties.

When they drew up to the station platform at Pagosa, Ewing hurried to
greet Mrs. Laithe and her brother. Pierce busied himself with the
trunks, cautiously watching the man check them.

Ben Crider, after a long, fervent look at Ewing's back, caught his
breath, sniffled, strangled this, and stepped quickly into his wagon.
Pulling the horses quietly away from the platform he whipped them into a
sharp trot toward the town. Ewing ran back, shouting. Ben would not
turn, but he thrust one arm back and upward with a careless wave.

Ewing stared hard at the bent head, the eloquent back, longing for a
further sign, but none came. He was at the gateway of the world, a mist
before his eyes.

A moment later their little train rattled into a narrow canyon where its
shrill whistle, battered from wall to wall, made the place alive with
shrieking demons.

Having seen his charge to a seat in the one squalid car, Ewing went out
to brace himself on the rear platform. She who was doing this thing had
seemed a strange lady again; in her manner, as in her dress, more
formal. The dark-blue, close-fitting gown, the small toque of blue
velvet, the secretive