Brow drawn and anxious, watchful, deeply thoughtful, Conniston did not see Mr. Crawford until the buckboard driven by Half-breed Joe had stopped close behind him. He wheeled about, startled at Mr. Crawford's voice.
"Good morning, Conniston. How's the work going?"
"All right, I hope." He came to the buckboard and, resting his hand upon the wheel, looked up into the face of the man who was to learn of another savage blow dealt to the hopes of his project.
"Where is Truxton?" Mr. Crawford was standing up in the wagon, looking as Conniston had looked at the sweep of work being done.
"He—" Conniston hesitated. "He's in the tent."
Mr. Crawford turned suddenly upon him, his eyes narrowing.
"What's the matter?" he demanded, hurriedly.
Conniston shook his head slowly, turning his eyes away from the face which a glance had shown him was drawn with quick anxiety.
"Drive to the tent, Joe!" commanded Mr. Crawford, his voice very stern.
Conniston watched them as their horses leaped forward in the slack traces, saw Mr. Crawford jump down, enter the tent, saw him come out again and spring back into the buckboard.