at, volunteering, in return, scraps from the range
and ranch. Laramie sat down in the nearest chair, tilted it slightly
back, and resting one arm on the table gazed into the empty fireplace.
He appeared as if much preoccupied--nor would, nor could, he talk of
what was in his mind, nor think of anything else.

Some minutes later he began in the same absent-minded manner on a huge
plateful of bacon, with a pot of coffee in keeping, and was eating in
silence when the stillness of the sunshine was broken by the sound of a
horse's hoofs. Laramie looked out and saw, through the open door, a
horseman riding in leisurely fashion up from the creek.

The man was tall. He swung lightly out of his saddle near the door,
and as he walked into the house it could be seen that he was
proportioned in his frame to his height; strength and agility revealed
themselves in every move. A rifle slung in a scabbard hung beside the
shoulder of the horse, and the man's rig proclaimed the cowboy, though
aside from a broad-brimmed Stetson hat his garb was simplicity itself.

It was the way in which he carried his height and shoulders that
arrested attention, nor was his face one easily to be forgotten. He
wore a jet-black beard that grew close and dropped compactly down. It
was neither bushy nor scraggly and with his black brows it made a
striking setting for strong and rather deep-set eyes which if not
actually black were certainly very dark. His smile revealed white,
regular teeth under his dark mustache, and his olive complexion, though
tanned, seemed different from those of men that rode the range with
him--perhaps it was owing to the glossy, black beard.

Abe Hawk was evidently at home in Laramie's cabin. He stepped through
the door and pushing his hat back on his forehead took a chair and sat
down. The two men, masters of taciturnity, looked at each other while
this was taking place, and as Hawk seated himself Laramie called for a
cup and pushed the coffee pot toward his visitor. Paying no attention
to the unspoken invitation, Hawk's features assumed the quizzical lines
they sometimes wore when he relaxed and poked questions at his friend.

"Well," he demanded, banteringly, "where's Jimmie been?"

"Medicine, Sleepy Cat--pretty near everywhere."

"I hear you got a job."

"I was offered one."

"Deputy marshal, eh?"

"Farrell Kennedy got me down to Medicine Bend to talk it over."

"What's the matter, couldn't you hold it?"