He had turned a corner and was proceeding along another side of the great oblong when he noticed a wagon approaching, carrying two strangers and several large trunks. As their dress differed from that usually worn on the prairie, he wondered who they were and why they were driving toward his ranch. The liveryman, who held the reins, presently pulled up his team and Prescott; stopping his binder, waited to be addressed. An old soft hat fell shapelessly forward over his deeply bronzed face, his neck and most of his arms were uncovered. Before him the four powerful horses stood fidgeting in the heat, a black cloud of flies about their heads. Though not a man of striking appearance, he was in harmony with his surroundings, and formed a fine central figure in the great harvest field: a worthy type of the new nation that is rising in the West.
For a moment or two the strangers studied him carefully from the wagon. The one nearest him was a woman of thirty, he thought, of tall and chastely lined figure, with a colorless and rather expressionless face, though her features were excellent. She wore a tight-fitting dark dress which seemed to have been made all in one piece, and gave an impression of prim coldness and careful restraint. The man in the soft hat was obviously her father. He had gray hair; his face, which was finely chiseled, suggested a formal, decided, and perhaps domineering, character; his gray tweed traveling suit was immaculately neat. There was no doubt that they were English, and Prescott wondered whom they reminded him of, until the truth flashed upon him with a disconcerting shock—they were Jernyngham’s father and sister!
“Mr. Prescott?” inquired the man.
Prescott bowed, and the teamster, jumping down, handed him two cards.
“I understand that you knew my unfortunate son,” the newcomer continued.
“I did,” Prescott replied guardedly.
“Then can I have a word or two with you in private?”
Getting down from the binder, Prescott helped the other to alight from the high wagon; the man was not agile, though he carried himself well. They walked back some distance along the edge of the wheat. Then the rancher stopped and from force of habit felt for his pipe.
“I must be to some extent confidential,” began Jernyngham. “You must guess why I came.”
The strong light fell searchingly on his face, revealing lines on it which Prescott thought had lately been deepened by pain, but his eyes were very keen and hard.