"All right, you'll find some blankets out in the wagon, Ben. You'd better go out and get one and put it around you." The boy started to obey. "Thank you, sir," he said. Rankin returned to his work. In the west the sun dropped slowly beneath the horizon, leaving a wonderful golden light behind. The waiting horses, too well trained to move from their places, shifted uneasily amid much creaking of harness. Within the grave the digger's head sunk lower and lower, while the mound by the side grew higher and higher. The cold increased. Across the prairie, a multitude of black specks advanced, grew large, whizzed overhead, then retreated, their wings cutting the keen air, and silence returned. Darkness was falling when at last Rankin clambered out to the surface. "Another blanket, Ben, please." Without a glance beneath, he wrapped the object under the old gunny-sack round and round with the rough wool winding-sheet, and, carrying it to the edge of the grave, himself descended clumsily and placed it gently at his feet. The pit was deep, and in getting out he slipped back twice; but he said nothing. Outside, he paused a moment, looking at the boy gravely. "Anything you wish to say, Benjamin?" The lad returned the gaze with equal gravity. "I don't know of anything, sir." The man paused a moment longer. "Nor I, Ben," he said gently. Again the spade resumed its work; and the impassive earth returned dully to its former resting-place. Dusk came on, but Rankin did not look about him until the mound was neatly rounded; then he turned to where he had left the little boy so bravely erect. But the small figure was not standing now; instead, it was prone on the ground amid the dust and ashes. "Ben!" said Rankin, gently. "Ben!" No answer. "Ben!" he repeated. "Yes, sir." For a moment a small thin face appeared above the dishevelled figure, and a great sob shook the little frame. Then the head disappeared again. "I can't help it, sir," wailed a muffled voice. "She was my mamma!" CHAPTER IV BEN'S NEW HOME Supper was over at the Box R Ranch. From the tiny lean-to the muffled rattle of heavy table-ware proclaimed the fact that Ma Graham was putting things in readiness for breakfast. Beside the sheet-iron heater in the front room, her husband, carefully swaddled in a big checked apron with the strings tied in a bow under his left ear, was busily engaged in dressing the half-dozen prairie chickens he had trapped that day. As fast as he removed the feathers he thrust them into the stove, and the pungent odor mingled with the suggestive tang of the bacon that had been the foundation of the past supper, and with the odor of cigarettes with which the other four men were permeating the place. Graham critically held up to the light the bird upon which he had just been operating, removed a few scattered feathers, and, with practised hand, attacked its successor.