"There's something gone the matter with that girl," he said. "She ain't like she always is."
"Perhaps it's—her father," King suggested, but Gabe made no immediate response to the suggestion.
"No, it ain't her father," he said after a few minutes. "She was as much worried over her father last night as she is to-day. There's something else."
King did not offer any further suggestions and the two walked along in silence for some little distance. At last Gabe stopped abruptly.
"Now I come to think of it," he said suddenly, "what the devil was wrong with you? You ain't seen her for days and yet you sat there all that time without speakin' a word."
The smile that started to King's face vanished suddenly. "Gabe, there's little chance for us to understand a woman," he said slowly. "I never could—they were always strange to me."
"I ain't thinkin' just now about her ways," Gabe replied with a directness that he never achieved except when he was very excited or very much in earnest. "It's you—your way ain't what it always is."
"I guess you're right, Gabe," King replied. "There's been something—just a misunderstanding—that's all."
Gabe whistled to himself—a very long, low whistle.
Dinner was served in camp that day very much as usual, with the exception that tables had to be set in the bunk-house. The supply of dishes was not all that might have been desired, but the cook's ingenuity and the exigencies of the occasion in which there was at least a little humour, did much to make the dinner hour almost as pleasant as it had ever been. The supply of eatables was ample, with plenty still to spare in the store. And although nothing was said about it there was a tacit recognition, and it was pretty general too, that the men had King to thank for the fact that the first meal served since the burning of the cook-camp was ample and well-ordered, even if it did come two hours late.