“A cowpuncher,” Rock drawled, “generally carries his bed with him when he’s on the move. And there’s all outdoors to spread it in.” “Of course. But when you come to a ranch---- Well, breakfast’s ready.” He walked with her to the house. “I got up early,” she said when they had finished. “Betty generally sleeps till seven or eight o’clock. I thought----” She stopped a moment, then continued with quiet decision: “I want to bury him.” “Here?” Rock didn’t mistake her meaning. “Yes. I’m sure he’d as soon be buried here as anywhere. There is nothing else we can do for him. You know what this country is like. We’re practically out of the world.” “Isn’t this part of the country organized at all?” Rock asked. “No local authorities?” “Are you a complete stranger here?” she countered. “I didn’t think so by the way you spoke of the Seventy Seven last night.” “I passed through this country last fall with a trail herd bound from Texas to Canada.” “Oh, I see,” she said. “Well, this Territory of Montana is a good deal of a no man’s land, outside of the western part, where there is a lot of mining. Fort Benton is the nearest thing to a town. It’s quite a place, but it isn’t a regularly organized community. There’s a United States marshal there, I think, and a judge comes down from the western part of the State, once a year, to hold court. There aren’t enough people to form a proper county organization yet, although it’s talked of. When my father came in here four years ago, we were the first outfit on the Marias. Betty is the first white child born north of the Missouri River in the Territory, I believe. So, you see,” she motioned abruptly with her hands, “there’s not much use running around in circles telling that Doc Martin has been shot. Last night I was in a terrible state. But I can think straight now. Doc is dead. We can’t do anything but bury him. I’d like to get it over with before Betty wakes up. She doesn’t know. She was awfully fond of Doc, and he of her.” “All right,” Rock agreed. If there were no formalities to be complied with, no coroner to sit in inquiry, no sheriff to seek trace of the killers, the sooner the dead man was buried the better. Trail outfits buried their dead and went on. And, perhaps, the last rites men performed for their dead under such circumstances lost nothing of sincerity because they were informal. * * * * * So Rock, shovel in hand, followed her to a spot a hundred yards east of the house, near the river bank. Under a giant cottonwood stood a small picket inclosure. Within that inclosure lifted two grassy mounds, long and narrow, a painted board at the end of each. For a second Rock thought the girl would break down again. “It’s ghastly,” she whispered. “It’s almost as if there were a curse on this place, if I believed in such a thing. Mamma died when Betty was born. A horse fell on dad. They’re both there. Now Doc.”