"Get back into bed," he said, evenly, with no display of temper. "You couldn't walk to water an' you couldn't set on a horse five minutes. You're here an' you're goin' to stay a while whether you like it or not." The cords of his neck stood out, giving the only evidence of the anger he felt. He gently forced the other man back into bed and covered him, breathing a trifle swiftly but offering no further protest for explanation. "You keep me here by force, and then you prate about doing it for my own good!" Lytton panted. "You damned hypocrite; you.... It's on account of a woman, I know! She tried to get coy with me; she tried to make me think she was all yours when I followed her up. She told you about it and ... damn you, you're afraid to let me go back to town!"--lifting himself on an elbow. "Come, Bayard, be frank with me: the thing between us is a woman, isn't it?" The rancher eyed him a long time, almost absently. Then he walked slowly to the far corner of the room and moved a chair back against the wall with great pains; it was as though he were deciding something, something of great importance, something on which an immediate decision was gravely necessary. He faced about and walked slowly back to the bedside without speaking. His lips were shut and the one hand held behind him was clenched into a knot. "Not now ... a woman," he said, as though he were uncertain himself. "Not now ... but it may be, sometime...." The other laughed and fell back into his pillows. Bayard looked down at him, eyes speculative beneath slightly drawn brows. "And then," he added, "if it ever comes to that...." He snapped his fingers and turned away abruptly, as if the thought brought a great uneasiness. CHAPTER VII TONGUES WAG It was afternoon the next day that Bruce Bayard, swinging down from his horse, whipped the dust from his clothing with his hat and walked through the kitchen door of the Manzanita House. "Hello, Nora," he said to the girl who approached him. "Got a little clean water for a dirty cow puncher?" He kicked out of his chaps and, dropping his hat to the floor, reached for the dipper. The girl, after a brief greeting, stood looking at him in perplexed speculation. "What's wrong, Sister? You look mighty mournful this afternoon!" "Bruce, what do you know about Ned Lytton?" she asked, cautiously, looking about to see that no one could overhear. "Why? What do _you_ know about him?" "Well, his wife's here; you took him upstairs with you that night dead drunk, you went home and he was gone before any of us was up. She ... she's worried to fits about him. Everybody's tryin' to put her off his track, 'cause they feel sorry for her; they think he's probably gone back to his mine to sober up, but nobody wants to see her follow and find out what he is. Nobody thinks she knows how he's been actin'. "You know, they think that she's his sister. I don't."