ts fur.

CHAPTER VIII

"IT TAKES NERVE JUST TO HANG ON"

Brit was smoking his pipe after supper and staring at nothing, though
his face was turned toward the closed door. Lorraine had washed the
dishes and was tidying the room and looking at her father now and then
in a troubled, questioning way of which Brit was quite oblivious.

"Dad," she said abruptly, "who is the man at Whisper?"

Brit turned his eyes slowly to her face as if he had not grasped her
meaning and was waiting for her to repeat the question. It was evident
that his thoughts had pulled away from something that meant a good deal
to him.

"Why?"

"A man came this morning, and said he was the man at Whisper, and that
he would come again to see you."

Brit took his pipe from his mouth, looked at it and crowded down the
tobacco with a forefinger. "He seen me ride away from the ranch, this
morning," he said. "He was coming down the Whisper trail as I was
taking the fork over to Sugar Spring, Frank and me. What did he say he
wanted to see me about?"

"He didn't say. He asked for you and Frank." Lorraine sat down and
folded her arms on the oilcloth-covered table. "Dad, what _is_
Whisper?"

"Whisper's a camp up against a cliff, over west of here. It belongs to
the Sawtooth. Is that all he said? Just that he wanted to see me?"

"He--talked a little," Lorraine admitted, her eyebrows pulled down.
"If he saw you leave, I shouldn't think he'd come here and ask for you."

"He knowed I was gone," Brit stated briefly.

With a finger nail Lorraine traced the ugly, brown pattern on the
oilcloth. It was not easy to talk to this silent man who was her
father, but she had done a great deal of thinking during that long,
empty day, and she had reached the point where she was afraid not to
speak.

"Dad!"

"What do you want, Raine?"

"Dad, was--has any one around here died, lately?"

"Died? Nobody but Fred Thurman, over here on Granite. He was drug
with a horse and killed."

Lorraine caught her breath, saw Brit looking at her curiously and moved
closer to him. She wanted to be near somebody just then, and after
all, Brit was her father, and his silence was not the inertia of a dull
mind, she knew. He seemed bottled-up, somehow, and bitter. She caught
his hand and held it, feeling its roughness between her two soft palms.

"Dad, I've got to tell you. I feel trapped, somehow. Did his horse
have a white face, dad?"

"Yes, he's a b