age ground could be seen far off in the potato field the
figure of the boy with two or three women, all busy with the
potatoes.

"What do you make that out to be?" enquired French.
"Who in the mischief are they? Go and see."

It was not long before Mackenzie stood before his master with
Kalman by his side.

"As sure as death," said Mackenzie, "he has a tribe of Galician
women yonder, and the pitaties iss all in."

"What do you say?" stammered French.

"It iss what I am telling you. The pitaties iss all in, and this
lad iss bossing the job, and the Galician women working like naygurs."

"What does this mean?" said French, turning his eyes slowly upon
Kalman. The boy looked older by years. He was worn and haggard.

"I saw a woman passing, she was a Galician, she brought the others,
and the potatoes are done. They have come here two days. But," said
the boy slowly, "there is nothing to eat."

With a mighty oath French sprang to his feet.

"Do you tell me you are hungry, boy?" he roared.

"I could not find much," said Kalman, his lip trembling in spite
of himself.

"What are you standing there for, Mackenzie?" roared French.
"Confound you for a drunken dog! Confound us both for two drunken
fools! Get something to eat!"

There was something so terrible in his look and in his voice that
Mackenzie fairly ran to obey his order. Kalman stood before his
master pale and shaking. He was weak from lack of food, but more
from anxiety and grief.

"I did the best I could," he said, struggling manfully to keep his
voice steady, "and--I am--awful glad--you're--better." His command
was all gone. He threw himself upon the grass while sobs shook his
frame.

French stood a moment looking down upon him, his face revealing
thoughts and feelings none too pleasant.

"Kalman, you're a good sort," he said in a hoarse voice. "You're a
man, by Jove! and," in an undertone, "I'm hanged, if I don't think
you'll make a man of me yet." Then kneeling by his side, he raised
him in his arms. "Kalman," he said, "you are a brick and a
gentleman. I have been a brute and a cad."

"Oh, no, no, no!" sobbed the boy. "You are a good man. But I
wish--you would--leave--it--alone."

"In God's name," said French bitterly, "I wish it too."

CHAPTER XIII

BROWN

Two weeks of life in the open, roaming the prairie alone with the
wolf hounds, or with French after the cattle, did much to obliterate
the mark which those five days left up