"If I were doing this job for myself," he commented, "I'd skin the beasts. Life is too blamed short to waste it in pulling out feathers!" Grannis, the new-comer from no one knew where, smiled. "It would look to me that you were doing it," he remarked. "I'd like to ask for information, who is if you ain't?" The clatter of dishes suddenly ceased, and Graham's labor stopped in sympathy. "My boy," he asked in reply, "were you ever married?" Beneath its coat of tan, Grannis's face flushed; but he did not answer. A second passed; then the plucking of feathers was continued. "I reckon you've never been, though," Graham went on, "else you'd never ask that question." During the remainder of the evening, Grannis sought no further information; and to Ma Graham's narrow life a new interest was added. Ordinarily the cowboys went to their bunks in an adjoining shed almost directly after supper, but this evening, without giving a reason, they lingered. The housekeeper finished her work, and, coming into the main room, took a chair and sat down, her hands folded in her lap. The grouse dressed, Graham ranged them in a row upon the lean-to table, removed the apron, and lit his pipe in silence. The cowboys rolled fresh cigarettes and puffed at them steadily, the four stumps close together glowing in the dimness of the room. As everywhere upon the prairie, the quiet was almost a thing to feel. At last, when the silence had become oppressive, the foreman took the pipe from his mouth and blew a short puff of smoke. "Seems like the boss ought to've got back before this," he said with a sidelong glance at his wife. Ma Graham nodded corroboration. "Yes; must have found something wrong, I guess." She refolded her hands, and once more relapsed into silence. It was the breaking of the ice, however. "Where d'ye suppose the trouble could have been, Graham?" It was another late-comer, Bud Buck, young and narrow of hips, who spoke. "At Blair's," was the answer. "The Big B is the closest." "Blair?" The questioner puffed at his cigarette thoughtfully. "Guess I never heard of him." "Must be a stranger in these parts, then," said Marcom. "Most everybody knows Tom Blair." He paused to give an all-including glance. "At least well enough to get a slice of his dough," he finished with a sarcastic laugh. "Does he handle the pasteboards?" asked Buck, with interest. "Tries to," contemptuously. The curiosity of the youthful Bud was now thoroughly aroused. "What kind of a fellow is he, anyway?" he went on. "Does he go it alone up at his ranch?" At the last question Bill Marcom, discreetly silent, shifted his eyes in the direction of the foreman, and, following them, Bud surprised a covert glance between Graham and his wife. It was the latter who finally answered. "Not _exactly_." Buck was not without intuition, and he shifted to safer ground. "Got much of a herd, has he?"