ghed till he was weak. Sheila laughed, too, at first half-heartedly,
then more heartily, and finally, as she reconstructed Feng's expression,
in sheer abandonment of merriment, until she wiped her eyes and gasped
for breath.

"Oh--oh!" she protested weakly; "my side hurts. I haven't had such a
laugh for ages. Oh, Casey, that chicken all same my friend now, too.
It's coming to her. That Chink--how mad he was! But what a mess! And
claret stains so. Your rug----"

She rose, impelled by her housewifely instincts to do what she could,
and, glancing through the door, she saw a man standing by the veranda
steps.

This was Tom McHale, Casey's friend and foreman. He was lean with the
flat-bellied leanness that comes of years of hard riding, and a but
partially subdued devil of recklessness lurked in his steady hazel
eyes. He was a wizard with animals, and he derived a large part of his
nourishment from Virginia leaf. He and Sheila were the best of friends.

"Howdy, Miss Sheila!" he greeted her. "I sure thought there was
hostiles in the house. What you doin' to that there Chink? He's cussin'
scand'lous. Casey been up to some of his devilment?"

"Come in and join us, Tom," said Casey. "Feng had a run-in with Fluff.
Result, one bottle of claret and two glasses gone to glory."

"Also one Chink on the warpath," McHale added. "If I was in the
insurance business I wouldn't write no policy on that there hen. She's
surely due to be soup flavourin'. She ain't got no more show than if
the Oriental was a coon. He's talkin' now 'bout goin' back to China."

"He always does when he gets a grouch. I wish I could get a white man."

"A white man that _can_ cook hates to stay sober long enough to build a
bannock," said McHale. "Chink grub has one flavour, but it comes
reg'lar, there's that about it."

Feng entered with fresh supplies, and they drank luxuriously, tinkling
the ice in the glasses, prolonging the satisfaction of thirst. McHale
went about his business. Sheila picked up her hat and gloves, declaring
that she must be going. Casey insisted on accompanying her. He shifted
his saddle to Dolly, a pet little gray mare; not because Shiner was
tired, but because there was a hard ride in store for him on the
morrow.

They rode into Talapus in time for supper. Afterward Casey and McCrae
discussed the coming of Farwell, and its significance.

"I pumped Corney Quilty a little," said Casey. "This Farwell is a
slap-up man, and they'd nev