The Kid cut him short, in a low, passionate voice:

"And you expect me to keep my mouth shut about you here--is that it?"

McGrew's fingers plucked nervously, hesitantly at his beard; his tongue
circled dry lips, and his black eyes fell from the Kid to trace
aimlessly, it seemed, the cracks in the floor.

The Kid dropped back into his chair, and, elbows on the table, chin in
hands, stared out across the tracks to where the side of the rock cut
was now no more than a black shadow.

Again it was McGrew who broke the silence.

"What are you going to do?" he asked miserably. "What are you going to
do? Use the key and put them wise? You wouldn't do that, would
you--Charlie? You wouldn't throw me down--would you? I'm--I'm living
decent here."

The Kid made no answer--made no movement.

"Charlie!" McGrew's voice rose in a high-pitched, nervous appeal.
"Charlie--what are you going to do?"

"Nothing!" The Kid's eyes were still on the black, rock shadow through
the station window, and the words came monotonously. "Nothing! As far
as I am concerned, you are--Dan McGrew."

McGrew lurched heavily forward, relief in his face and voice as he put
his hands on the Kid's shoulders.

"You're all right, Charlie, all right; I knew you wouldn't----"

The Kid sprang to his feet, and flung the other's hands roughly from
his shoulders.

"Keep your hands off me!" he said tensely. "I don't stand for that!
And let's understand each other. You do your work here, and I do mine.
I don't want to talk to you. I don't want you to talk to me. I don't
want anything to do with you--that's as straight as I know how to put
it. The first chance I get I'll move--they'll never move you, for I
know why they sent you here. That's all, and that's where we
stand--McGrew."

"D'ye mean that?" said McGrew, in a cowed, helpless way.

The Kid's answer was only a harsh, bitter laugh--but it was answer
enough. McGrew, after a moment's hesitation, turned and went silently
from the room.

A week passed, and another week came and went, and neither man spoke to
the other. Each lived his life apart, cooked for himself, and did his
work; and it was good for neither one. McGrew grew morose and ugly;
and the Kid somehow seemed to droop, and there was a pallor in his
cheeks and a listless air about him that was far from the cheery
optimism with which he had come to take the key at Angel Forks.

Two weeks passed, and then one night, after t