The cowboy's eyelids flickered. How could this man Waring speak of Pat that way, when he must know that Pat had been killed? Everybody knew that. Why didn't Mrs. Starr or Starr say something? But Starr was limping to the table, and Mrs. Starr was telling them to come and have supper.
In the glow of the hanging lamp, Starr's lined, grizzled features were as unreadable as carved bronze. Waring, at his left, sat directly opposite the cowboy, Pete. The talk drifted from one subject to another, but no one mentioned the killing of Pat. Waring noted the cowboy's lack of appetite.
"I looked over your saddle-stock this afternoon," said Waring. "Noticed you had a bay out there, white blaze on his nose. You don't want to sell that pony, do you?"
"Oh, that's Pete's pony, Baldy," said Mrs. Starr.
Starr glanced at Waring. The horse Baldy was good enough as cow-ponies went, but Waring had not ridden over to buy horses.
"I aim to keep that cayuse," said Pete, swallowing hard.
"But every man has his price,"—and Waring smiled. "I'll make my offer; a hundred, cash."
"Not this evenin'," said the cowboy.
Waring felt in the pocket of his flannel shirt. "I'll go you one better. I'll make it a hundred, cash, and this to boot." And his arm straightened.
Pete started back. Waring's hand was on the table, the fingers closed.
His fingers slowly opened, and a crumpled piece of paper lay in his
palm. The cowboy's lips tightened. His eyes shifted from Waring to
Starr, and then back again.