In the middle of the plat, standing a few inches below the surface, was a small boy, and in his hands a very large spade. He wore a man's discarded shirt, with sleeves rolled up at the wrist, and neck-band pinned tight at one side. Obviously, he had been digging, for a small pile of fresh dirt was heaped at his right. Now, however, he was motionless, the blue eyes beneath the long lashes observing the new-comer inquiringly. That was all, save that to the picture was added the background of the unbroken silence of the prairie. The man was the first to break the spell. He got out of the wagon clumsily, walked around the wall, and entered the quadrangle by what had been the door. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Digging," replied the boy, resuming his work. "Digging what?" The boy lifted out a double handful of dirt upon the big spade. "A grave." The man glanced about again. "For some pet?" The boy shook his head. "No--sir," the latter word coming as an after-thought. His mother had taught him that title of respect. Rankin changed the line of interrogation. "Where's Tom Blair, young man?" "I don't know, sir." "Your mother, then, where is she?" "My mother is dead." "Dead?" The child's blue eyes did not falter. "I am digging her grave, sir." For a time Rankin did not speak or stir. Amid the stubbly beard the great jaws closed, until it seemed the pipe-stem must be broken. His eyes narrowed, as when, before starting, he had questioned the cowboy Grannis; then of a sudden he rose and laid a detaining hand upon the worker's shoulder. He understood at last. "Stop a minute, son," he said. "I want to talk with you." The lad looked up. "How did it happen--the fire and your mother's death?" No answer, only the same strangely scrutinizing look. Rankin repeated the question a bit curtly. Ben Blair calmly removed the man's hand from his shoulder and looked him fairly in the eyes. "Why do you wish to know, sir?" he asked. The big man made no answer. Why did he wish to know? What answer could he give? He paced back and forth across the narrow confines of the four sod walls. Once he paused, gazing at the little lad questioningly, not as one looks at a child but as man faces man; then, tramp, tramp, he paced on again. At last, as suddenly as before, he halted, and glanced sidewise at the uncompleted grave. "You're quite sure you want to bury your mother here?" he asked. The lad nodded silently. "And alone?" Again the nod. "Yes, I heard her say once she wished it so." Without comment, Rankin removed his coat and took the spade from the boy's hand. "I'll help you, then." For a half-hour he worked steadily, descending lower and lower into the dry earth; then, pausing, he wiped the perspiration from his face. "Are you cold, son?" he asked directly. "Not very, sir." But the lad's teeth were chattering. "A bit, though?" "Yes, sir," simply.