he 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."

Rankin threw an outward motion with his powerful hand. "Yes, I know; but
when I quit moving I want to die. I know I could get a steam-heated back
room in a quiet street of a sleepy town somewhere and coddle myself into
a good many years yet; but it isn't worth the price. I love this big
free life too well ever to leave it. Most of the people one meets here
are rough, but in time that will all change. It's changing now; and
meantime nature compensates for everything."

There was a moment's silence, and then, as though there had been no
digression, Rankin went back to the former subject. "Yes," he said
slowly, "I think you're right about those being Tom Blair's tracks." He
turned and faced the younger man squarely. "If it is, Ben, it means he's
been frozen out from his hiding-place, wherever that is, and he's crazy
desperate. He