The door of the bunk house opened suddenly and a cowboy stalked in, a lean, dark man, rather short and slim, with eyes of that peculiar light, slaty gray that have a staring effect; apparently no depth to them. These, with heavy overhanging brows and an inclination to sneer, gave him a forbidding appearance. His hat and slicker glistened with water. At his entrance Injun ceased speaking abruptly. "Gee, I got soaked in that rain," said the newcomer. "Stopped at th' Cut on my way back from th' Junction. Th' railroad hands got paid, to-day, an' they're raisin' cain. Wisht I'd stayed there, 'stead o' gettin' soaked." "I wish you had, too," Bill Jordan murmured to himself, unheard by the other. This puncher, Henry Dorgan, was a man who was vaguely disliked on the ranch, with nothing in particular on which to hang the cause of the feeling. It was characteristic of him, for one thing, that he had no nickname. In a country where almost every one's name was familiarly shortened into Hank, or Bill, or Jim, or was changed to Kid, or Red, or Shorty, he remained Henry--not even Harry. He threw off his hat and slicker, stamped to shake off the moisture that clung to his boots, sat down, and prepared to make himself at home. "Go ahead, Injun," said Jim Walker. "You was just at th' most interestin' part." Injun rose, walked to a bucket in a corner, poured himself a dipper of water, and drank calmly. Then he returned, sat down and looked straight ahead of him. There was a painful tension, of which Dorgan did not seem to be aware. Buck Higgins tried to dispel it. "Perceed, Injun," he said. "We're all a-waitin' on you." Without embarassment, Injun continued to say nothing. Bill Jordan began to show signs of nervousness, which finally broke into speech. "Had anythin' t' eat, Henry?" he asked. "Nope. Too busy drinkin' an' things, at th' Cut," replied Dorgan, who, however, showed no signs of intoxication. "Better go out t' th' kitchen, an' rustle yourself somep'n'," Bill suggested. "Wong'll get crazy if I monkey with his grub," objected Henry. "I'll take care o' Wong. G'wan, you don't wanta be hungry," Bill said. "I c'd do with some beans an' coffee," Dorgan allowed, and took himself off. After he was gone, there was another period of silence. It was so unusual for Injun to talk at all, and the effort to start him again having failed, it seemed now to occur to everybody that it probably would be better to let him alone until he got in the mood again. Presently Whitey saw Injun's eyes take on their former faraway look, as though they were gazing into his father's tepee fire, or into the red faces of his kinsmen. "What did the White Chief do when he went back?" Whitey asked softly.