There was silence again as they continued reading. The Virginian, just come from Sunk Creek, had seen no newspapers as recent as these. When two friends on meeting after absence can sit together for half an hour without a word passing between them, it is proof that they really enjoy each other’s company. The gentle air came in the window, bringing the tonic odor of the sage-brush. Outside the window stretched a yellow world to distant golden hills. The talkative voice of a magpie somewhere near at hand was the only sound. “Nothing in the newspapers in particular,” said Scipio, finally. “You expaictin’ something particular?” the Virginian asked. “Yes.” “Mind sayin’ what it is?” “Wish I knew what it is.” “Always Horacles?” “Always him--and Uncle. I’d like to spot Uncle.” Mess call sounded from the parade ground. It recalled the flight of time to the Virginian. “When you get back from Billings,” said Scipio, “you’re liable to find me up and around.” “Hope so. Maybe you’ll be well enough to go with me to the ranch.” But when the Virginian returned, a great deal had happened all at once, as is the custom of events. Scipio’s vigorous convalescence brought him in the next few days to sitting about in the open air, and then enlarged his freedom to a crutch. He hobbled hither and yon, paying visits, many of them to the doctor. The doctor it was, and no newspaper, who gave to Scipio the first grain of that “something particular” which he had been daily seeking and never found. He mentioned a new building that was being put up rather far away down in the corner of the reservation. The rumor in the air was that it had something to do with the Quartermaster’s department. The odd thing was that the Quartermaster himself had heard nothing about it. The Agent up at the Agency store considered this extremely odd. But a profound absence of further explanations seemed to prevail. What possible need for a building was there at that inconvenient, isolated spot? Scipio slapped his leg. “I guess what y’u call my romance is about to start.” “Well,” the doctor admitted, “it may be. Curious things are done upon Indian reservations. Our management of them may be likened to putting the Lord’s Prayer and the Ten Commandments into a bag and crushing them to powder. Let our statesmen at Washington get their hands on an Indian reservation, and not even honor among thieves remains.” “Say, doc,” said Scipio, “when d’ y’u guess I can get off?” “Don’t be in too much of a hurry,” the doctor cautioned him. “If you go to Sunk Creek--” “Sunk Creek! I only want to go to the Agency.” “Oh, well, you could do that to-day--but don’t you want to see the entertainment? Conjuring tricks are promised.” “I want to see Horacles.” “But he is the entertainment. Supper comes after he’s through.” Scipio stayed. He was not repaid, he thought. “A poor show,” was his comment as he went to bed. He came later to be very glad indeed that he had gone to that entertainment.