weary or indifferent man, one arm on the table, his straight-stemmed briar pipe in his close-clamped mouth. Now and again he nodded, shook his head, or said some stingy word around his pipestem. And through it all Barrett had the impression that power sat on the side of the table with the silent man.
Barrett made no attempt to mingle with the men around the fire, although the blaze would have been welcome, for the night wind is cold in those high altitudes where frost is not unknown in the latter days of August. He stretched with elbow on the saddle taken from his dead horse, smoking his pipe, its stem so short the warmth of its bowl was felt on his face. Around the fire they were talking of the dead man, but none came over to question Barrett on his part in the tragedy. Perhaps because they were not certain of his status in camp, whether guest and equal of the big boss, or greenhorn come to bungle and stall around on the range.
The horse wrangler, last man to supper, owing to his unwelcome task, came over to where Barrett stretched, and squatted near. Barrett could hear the rustle of his paper as he rolled a cigarette, and the full breathing of his repletion as he sat there in the dark on his heels.
"Got a match, pardner?" the wrangler requested presently, after feeling himself over with muttered curses of disappointment.
Barrett supplied the need silently, knowing nothing of the etiquette of cow camps. He did not know whether it was his turn to speak; he was not going to court the contempt of any other man in that bunch by
