The temper of the ranchers was at the breaking point. Naturally the blame fell on Farwell; he was the villain of the piece. He had expected unpopularity, but he had no idea of the depth of it. The black looks he met did not disturb him in the least; nor, to do him justice, would he have been seriously alarmed if he had known that more than one man was quite ready to pick a deadly quarrel with him. For some time he had not seen Sheila McCrae, but he found himself thinking of her constantly. And so, one evening he rode over to Talapus.
Somewhat to his relief, neither McCrae nor Sandy was visible. Mrs. McCrae was calmly civil. Her manner gave no hint that he was unwelcome. Sheila, she told him, had gone for a walk somewhere along the ditch.
"Oh," said Farwell, with elaborate carelessness, "then I think I'll just stroll along and meet her."
At the end of ten minutes' walk he came upon the girl. She was sitting, her chin propped on her hands, beside the stream where a little bordering grove of willows had sprung up. The deep murmur of the running water muffled his footsteps so that she neither saw nor heard him till he was at her side.
"Good evening," he said.
She turned her head slowly, without start or exclamation.
"I did not expect to see you, Mr. Farwell."
"I thought I'd run over," he said awkwardly. "I intended to come before."
She allowed a long minute of silence to lie between them. "And why have you come now?" she asked.
"Why?" Farwell repeated the word. "Why? I wanted to see you. Why shouldn't I come?"