The man swung on his horse, and even the cattlemen of the plains would have found something to admire in the ease and grace with which his body slipped down into the saddle. The horse moved forward, the pack animals pushed on behind him. A few minutes later they had swung down into the still street of the town. Tired as he was, his hands were swift and strong as he unpacked the animals and tied them in the bar back of Johnson's,—the little frontier inn. As always, after the supper hour, a group of the townsmen were gathered about the hotel stove; and all of them spoke to him as he entered. He stood among them an instant, warming his hands.
They had few words at first. The lesson of silence is taught deeply and sure in the North. The hostess went to her kitchen to order the man's supper, the townsmen drew at their pipes.
"Well, Bill," one of them asked at last, "how's everything with you?"
It was not the usual how-d'ye-do of greeting. The words were spoken in actual question, as if they had special significance.
The man straightened, turning sober eyes. "Nothing startling yet," he replied.
"In after supplies?"
"Yes—and my mail."
There was a long pause. The conversation was apparently ended. Bill turned to go. A stranger spoke from the other side of the fire.
"How's Grizzly River?" he asked. Bill turned to him with a smile.
"Getting higher and higher. All the streams are up. You know that bald-faced bay of Fargo's?"