“She's gone,” he said to emptiness. “She's lef' me—” Black Bart licked his limp hand but dared not even whine.
Chapter XXXVII. Ben Swann
Since the night when old Joe Cumberland died and Kate Cumberland rode off after her wild man, Ben Swann, the foreman of the Cumberland ranch, had lived in the big house. He would have been vastly more comfortable in the bunkhouse playing cards with the other hands, but Ben Swann felt vaguely that it was a shame for so much space in the ranch house to go to waste, and besides, Ben's natural dignity was at home in the place even if his mind grew lonely. It was Ben Swann, therefore, who ran down and flung open the door, on which a heavy hand was beating. Outside stood two men, very tall, taller than himself, and one of them a giant. They had about them a strong scent of horses.
“Get a light” said one of these. “Run for it. Get a light. Start a fire, and be damned quick about it!”
“And who the hell might you gents be?” queried Ben Swann, leaning against the side of the doorway to dicker.
“Throw that fool on his head,” said one of the strangers, “and go on in, Lee!”
“Stand aside,” said the other, and swept the doorknob out of Ben's grip, flattening Ben himself against the wall. While he struggled there, gasping, a man and a woman slipped past him.
“Tell him who we are,” said the woman's voice. “We'll go to the living-room, Buck, and start a fire.”
The strangers apparently knew their way even in the dark, for presently he heard the scraping of wood on the hearth in the living-room. It bewildered Ben Swann. It was dream-like, this sudden invasion.