ctness. But there were lines about his eyes and mouth, and between
his level brows, which had been less noticeable twelve months ago. This
was the front which he set up before the eyes of the little world he
knew. In moments of solitude, when no eyes were there to observe, it may
have been different. But he desired neither sympathy nor support. He
desired only to be left to himself, to those purposes which he would
permit nothing to change or interfere with.

He had rid himself of all signs of his connection with the police force
as though he had determined to cut himself off from a period of his life
which had only yielded bitter memories. Nor had he anything about him
reminiscent of the trail, which had been so much a part of his life. He
was clad in the tweeds of civilization, which robbed him of some of that
distinction which the rougher wear had always pronounced.

"I'm glad," he said, and went on smoking in the silent fashion which
only real companionship understands.

After a few moments of voiceless contemplation of the wide view over the
Reservation the Scotsman stirred in his chair. The thoughtful knitting
of his heavy brows relaxed, and he glanced at the preoccupied face of
his companion.

"There's a heap of things I'd like to ask you, Steve," he said bluntly.
"And a whole heap I wouldn't. It's the sort of position I don't
generally reckon to find myself in," he added, with a twinkle in his
deep-set eyes. "You see, I mostly know the things I want to say. Maybe
you've got things you want to tell me, as well as things you don't. It's
up to you."

Steve nodded.

"It's best that way," he said. "Yes, there's things I want to say. And
it's mostly about the boy, and--An-ina. There's other things, too." He
paused. Then he went on: "You see, Doc, I haven't made a heap of
friends. There's about no one, except you. I'd like to talk straight
out. McDowell's a decent enough citizen, but he's not the sort you can
hand out some things to. Jack Belton and those others, well, they're
good enough boys, but--Anyway, it don't cut any ice. You're just
different and I want to hand you what'll maybe make you wish I hadn't.
The first is just this. I want you to forget the things that's
happened--to me. I want you just to tell yourself 'He don't care a
curse.' It won't be the truth, but I want you to act as if it were.
Those things are mine. Just mine. I've set them in a sort of grave, and
it's only going to be my hands that o