Jim gazed through the doorway after them, and Dan furtively watched him for some silent moments.
“Well?” he said at last.
The tone of his inquiry was peculiar. There was no definite anger in it, nor was it a simple question. Yet it stung the man to whom it was addressed in a way that set his teeth gritting, and the blood running hot to his head.
“Well?” he retorted. And their eyes met with the defiance of men of big physical courage.
Dan was the first to avert his gaze, but it was only to hide that which lay behind in his thoughts. And when he spoke there was a harsh smile in his eyes.
“What ha’ ye got to say t ”––he jerked a thumb in the direction of the bunk house––“that feller’s yarn?”
Jim’s answer was unhesitating. He shrugged as he spoke.
“Guess there’s no definite reason to doubt it. There are the cattle. They’re all re-branded with my brand. I’ve seen ’em. The hand that did it was a prentice hand, though. That’s the only thing. The veriest kid could detect the alteration.”
“It’s your brand.” Dan’s eyes were still averted.