Fitzrapp flung back a gesture toward the Montana hills in the purple distance beyond the border and only a few leagues beyond the limits of her own Rafter A Range.
"From the States," he said with obvious grouch.
There ensued a quarter of a mile of silence. Tom Fitzrapp knew when to keep still.
"What makes you think so?"
She asked the question as though coming from the United States was some sort of a crime.
"I taxed him with it and he didn't deny."
"But I'm certain," protested the widow, "that on the coat tied to the cantle of his saddle there was one of our own distinguished conduct ribbons. Wouldn't that indicate——"
"There were many from the States in the Canadian war forces," Fitzrapp offered. "Probably he's riding back to cash in on some bonus or other graft."
"Bonus—more than you'll ever cash," the widow snapped. The war had cost her a husband and any mention of it still had the lash of a whip for her.
Again they rode in silence.