"Well, it's your funeral," said Farwell. "I can't help my job, just remember that. And of course I've got to earn my pay."
"Sure," said McCrae; "sure, I understand."
They were at the camp. Farwell jumped out inviting McCrae to put his team up and come to his quarters. McCrae refused. It was late; he must be getting back.
"Just as you say," said Farwell. "I'm coming over to your ranch now and then, if you don't mind."
"Come along," said McCrae. "Latchstring's always out. You, Jeff; you, Dinny! G'lang, boys!"
The buckboard leaped to the sudden plunge of the little road team. Farwell stood for a moment listening to the diminishing drum roll of hoofs, whir of spokes, and clank of axles in their boxes.
"The blamed fool!" he thought. "Well, I gave him his chance. But it's going to be hard on his folks." He shook his head. "Yes, it will be pretty hard on his wife and the girl—what do they call her? Sheila. Nice name that—odd! Sheila!" He repeated the name aloud.
"Hello, did you speak to me?" said the voice of his assistant, Keeler, in the darkness.
"No!" snapped Farwell, with unnecessary curtness; "I didn't."
CHAPTER VIII