the infinite prairie; but apparently neither man noticed, neither man cared—­and the silence returned.  Long minutes passed.  The fire in the stove burned lower and lower.  Into the tent crept a suggestion of the coolness without.  Then at last Landor roused.  Without a word he put on his hat and buttoned his coat.  His fingers were unnaturally clumsy and he found the task difficult.  Just for a moment he had a wild idea of asking the other’s forgiveness, of attempting an explanation where none was possible; but he realised it would but make matters worse, and desisted.  The Indian, too, had arisen, and repressedly courteous, stood ready to open the flap of the tent for the other to pass.  For a moment, the last moment they were ever to see each other alive, they stood so, each waiting for the other to speak, each knowing that the other would not speak; then heavily, shufflingly, Landor took a step forward.

The tent curtain opened before him, was held back while he passed; then closed again, shutting him out.

For five long dragging minutes after he was gone the other man remained as he stood, motionless as a bronze statue, as an inanimate thing.  The kerosene lamp was burning low now and sputtered dismally; but he did not notice, did not hear.  For the third time, tremulous against the background of night and of silence, came the wail of the lonely little captive.  It was a kindred sound, an appealing sound, and at last the figure responded.  Hatless as he was he left the tent, returned a minute later with something tagging at his heels:  a woolly, grey, bright-eyed something, happy as a puppy at release and companionship.  Methodically the man banked the coal fire and put out the lantern.  He did not make a bed, did not undress.  Instead, weary as Landor himself, he dropped amid the buffalo robes, lay still.  “Sniff, sniff,” sounded a pointed, inquiring nose in the darkness, “sniff, sniff, sniff.”  There was no response, and becoming bolder, its owner crept close to the face of the silent being on the ground, squirmed a moment contentedly—­and likewise became still.

CHAPTER XI

THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

The darkness that precedes morning had the prairie country in its grip when Howard, the gaunt foreman of the B.B. ranch, drew rein before the silent tent, and with the butt end of his quirt tapped on the heavy canvas.

“Wake up,” he called laconically.  “You’re wanted at the ranch house.”

Echo-like, startling in its suddenness, an inverted V opened in the white wall and in it, fully dressed, vigilant, appeared the figure of its owner.

“What is it?” asked a voice insistently.

The Texan stared in unconcealed surprise.

“In Heaven’s name, man, don’t you ever sleep?” he drawled.  “The boss is dead,” he added baldly at second thought.

The black V closed again, and distinct in outline against the white background appeared the silhouette of the listener.  His arms were folded across his chest in a way that was characteristic, and his moccasined feet were set close together.  He spoke no word of surprise, asked no question; merely stood there in the silence and the semi-darkness waiting.