On the arrival of the wrangler with his freight of death covered under a tentcloth, the cowboys left off their chaffing and chatter and small talk among themselves to stiffen up with a new interest in the greenhorn. Only then, indeed, the news went around that a man had been killed down in the canyon, and this kid was the one to credit for it.
They looked at Barrett with renewed curiosity, with something like approach to terms of, if not equality, recognition as a sort of man. It seemed incredible, their bearing said, that he should pop a man over that way; some strange freak of chance must have favored him, indeed. It was about the same as if a cat had whipped a bear.
Findlay, whose word in camp appeared to be supreme notwithstanding the presence of his employer, gave a few sharp directions on the arrival of the wagon, and stood watching while his men unloaded the melancholy freight and laid it under a tree some distance from the cabin.
The superintendent seemed to resent even this little part in the off-bearing of the wreckage of another hand. He walked about when the job was done, hands at his back, pipe in mouth, beyond the circle of the fire around which the men gathered presently for a cigarette before their blankets.
This Dale Findlay was a lean and sinewy man, thin of flanks, light-framed, tall. His countenance was dark and morose, as of a man whom cares had harassed and the laughter of life passed over. He was a severe, short-spoken man, thin-lipped, brown; a handsome man
