merge. Again a scream shrilled throughout the house, striking Tom Gillette's heart cold. It rose to an unearthly pitch, then was drowned by the echo of a gun thundering and crashing against the four walls. Nobody moved, nobody seemed to breathe. But presently the man of the olive skin hiccoughed and fell. The lane began to close; through it the victor fought his way, hatless, wild of eye, waving his gun. In a moment he had passed out of the place, and the drumming of his pony's hoofs beat down the street and grew faint. Bedlam rose, like air rushing into a vacuum.
"Good God!" muttered Lispenard. He turned to the Gillettes, the ruddy colour quite drained from his cheeks. "That turns my stomach. Why don't they do something? Why don't they go after the fellow? Everybody standing around like a lot of stone images!"
Major Bob ignored him completely. He raised his unfinished glass, speaking to his son in the same grave and courteous manner. "To the Circle G." And while Lispenard stared, shaken to his depths, they drank. At that moment father and son never looked so much alike, both with a hard granite impassivity printed from cheek bone to cheek bone; the kind of an expression made with muscles tightly set. Meeting Tom's eyes, Lispenard was shocked to see the bleakness therein. It was as if he faced a complete stranger.
"We had better be going," said Major Bob.
The trio marched out and back to the Major's horse. He swung up and turned into the street. "I will go ahead. The camp is a mile beyond the corrals. Doubtless you will want to explain a few things to your friend."
This last sentence had no meaning to Lispenard, but Tom nodded soberly. "I will do it."
The two of them walked away from Dodge, past the corrals, and along the rolling prairie. To their left lay the river; above them swung the full disk of silver. Lispenard breathed heavily, and the scene in the saloon oppressed him until he could no longer hold his peace. "And you all took it so cursed cold! I begin to see the meaning of that flint and ice look you sometimes wear. The whole set of you put it on like a mask."
"Blondy, let me give you a single piece of advice. In this country, never give yourself away. Play poker with a blank face. Never tell a man anything about yourself, never ask him about himself. And no matter how you are hurt, never reveal it to a living creature."
"By the Lord, I'm not made of stone!" cried Lispenard.
"No," agreed Tom. "None of us are. But hereabouts men must carry themselves as if they were. Once a fellow started crying about his hurts he would never quit. This is a rough country. Nobody wants to hear about your feelings."
"Do you mean to tell me that that murder left you cold?" demanded the Blond Giant.
Tom travelled fifty yards without replying. Of course it hadn't left him cold. It had cut him to the very marrow and again made him seem an alien. And not long ago he would have confessed it to Lispenard. But somehow he no longer felt inclined to the old exchange of confidences. He was going back to the old ways already, beginning to judge once more by the standards of the country. And according to those standards the Blond Giant had ill conducted himself.
"It makes no difference at all," said he, seeing the chuck- wagon fire ahead, "what a man feels. Somehow, when you get under the stars, it isn't important."
Lispenard fell to silence as they approached the light. Major Bob stood by the fire, around which the punchers were assembled. He had summoned them, and as his son came into view he spoke briefly, abruptly.
"This is Tom Gillette, my son. He rides with us. He asks no favours, he will receive none. If anybody wishes to challenge his mettle, that's not my affair. The other gentleman's name is Lispenard, a pilgrim and a guest of the outfit. San Saba!"
Tom swept the circle with a curious eye. None of these men had been with the Circle G in his time. It was a hard brand to work for, and the riders came and disappeared in quick succession. But he instantly recognized the calibre of the crew. His father picked only the best. Tall and short, lean and heavy—they were of all descriptions, yet they all fell into one type.
The Major's voice plunged into the darkness. "San Saba!"
"Comin', suh."
The Major meanwhile pointed to Lispenard. "I will tolerate no hazing with this gentleman. He is a guest. Remember that."
San Saba crawled reluctantly from the shadows, and Tom Gillette, seeing him for the first time, felt his muscles draw up. The man was as tall as any in the outfit and distinctly rawboned. His arms were gangling and hung to his sides as if useless to him; he slouched toward the group with his head tilted forward. It was a head too small for his body and indeed all his features seemed shrunken, from his narrow chin up to his sloping forehead which in turn slid back into sandy red hair. Tom Gillette thought he never had seen a more cruel mouth or such gimlet eyes. The colour of them he could not tell, but a reddish pall seemed to hang over the surface, and the lids were likewise rimmed with the same colour.
"This," said Major Bob, "is my foreman, San Saba."
San Saba met Tom Gillette with a hurried, expressionless glance and dropped his head in scant recognition. Nor did he offer his hand until Tom first extended his own. Then there was only a slight pressure and a quick withdrawal.
"Han'somely pleased," drawled San Saba in flat, monotonous syllables. That was all; he backed away and was lost in the shadows. Major Bob disappeared from view and then most of the crew returned to their blankets. The introduction was over. Tom and Lispenard squatted before the flames, hearing Quagmire's rumbling voice take up some yarn he had been spinning.
"So them greasers staked me out on the ant hill an' let the bugs get a good feed. I was there twelve hours when the Rangers come up. We caught them renegades later, an' I skelped me the cuss what tied me down."
Lispenard was sober and morose. He stared at Quagmire, then spoke to Tom in a tone meant to carry across the fire.
"I suppose I'll be hearing all sorts of fool fish stories from now on. Do I look green?"
Quagmire appeared not to hear. But presently he swung his head a little, and the light played upon the left side of his face; it was nothing but a great pocket where some injury had scored him. Lispenard sprang to his feet, swearing. "Where do we sleep? My nerves certainly must be in a hell of a state."
The colored cook met them on the edge of the shadows, throwing two bedding rolls from his massive shoulders. He had no attention for Lispenard, but one fist gripped the younger Gillette's arm. "Marse Tom, yo' don' know me no mo'?"
Tom's voice sang upward. "Why, Old Mose! You ornery rascal—I've been wondering about you! Mose, remember the time we trapped the bear in the caves?"
The Negro's head bobbed like a cork in water. "Ya-as, ya-as. I been waitin' fo' yo', Marse Tom. Sho' seemed like a mighty long spell. I'll sho' see yo' coffee cup am allus full. Sho'!"
Quagmire watched and listened. And when the two newcomers had faded into the darkness he spoke cryptically, announcing his conviction as to them. "One range hoss come back to the old stampin' grounds. Once a man gets the smell o' fire smoke in his nose it's hard to stay away. But as fo' sugar-fed pets, half broke, half wild, I nev' had any likin'. Man, short o' days an' full o' trouble."
The fire died to a golden glow. The camp settled to rest save for Quagmire, who was a notorious nighthawk. His thin and brooding face peered into the ashes as if seeking the mystery of creation there. Overhead the moon swung on its vast arc. Tom, once more sleeping under the stars, felt again the throb of the universe. It came to him out of the fathomless vault, it bore up on the night
