"If ye want anny more forgitmenots come back the morrow, the garden's full."
With this parting shot he climbed up on his tank and resumed his trip to the water-hole.
IV
THE MAN, ROB McCLURE
Rob McClure sat before his roll-top desk, his head resting upon his hands. He was perturbed. Occasionally his head would sink into a posture of dejection. In a moment he would straighten, shrug his shoulders and look out of the window, his face swept by the irony of an uncouth smile.
He was a man of powerful physique, large of frame, possessor of a presence singularly impressive. He was conscious of his power. An habitual, impatient shrug revealed a restive spirit deeply antagonistic to baffling elements. A relentless, implacable expression inwrought the face that exhibited even in the act of smiling the dominance of an over-riding will. There was something cruel in the hard lines about the mouth, while the deep little wrinkles about the eyes more than hinted brutal cunning. One felt that given sufficient pressure Rob McClure was capable of the unspeakable. There were, however, relieving features to the hard visage, most prominent of all a high, expansive brow and great, volcanic eyes.
Looking out of the window his eyes fell on the yellow stretches of stubble, empty now save for the huge piles of straw thrown up by the blower. In the west the plain was gulfed by the blue depths of The Qu'Appelle Valley. His glance swept over the autumn landscape all unseeing, for his gaze was fixed on two streams of distant smoke that rose for a little in straight columns, then floated off in long parallel lines to the west. Clenching his fist he brought it down on the desk.
"I've got him nailed!" he breathed fiercely, smiling his strange smile.
Then his confidence seemed to shake. The two lines of smoke were streaming over the fields evenly abreast.
"Pullar's a silent devil," he whispered darkly. "He is deep—deep as ——, and he cleans up a pile of stuff."