There was a rumour in the camp that Posey Breem had not always been the man that he was—that a woman had once blessed his life. But since they had carried the young mother away, with her dead baby on her breast, to place the two in one deep grave together, he had gone steadily downward.
With hungry eyes Breem gazed at the scene in the poor little house, his thoughts flying backward over the years. A sudden sharp, impatient whistle roused him, and he strode hastily back to the waiting men.
"Well, Pose?" interrogated Skid impatiently.
"He's there, all right," said Breem, in a peculiar tone. "I ain't overmuch given to advising prowling round folks' houses, but you fellows just look in yonder." He jerked his head toward the shack. And a line of big, rough-looking men filed into the little illumined space, to come back presently silent and subdued.
"Now let's go home," said Breem, turning his horse toward camp.
"And your horse, Pose?" questioned Bates.
"Burn the horse!" said Breem quickly. "D'ye think the like of yonder's a horse thief? I ain't worrying 'bout the horse." And the men rode back to camp silently.
The next morning, when Breem swung open the door of the stall, he was not surprised to find the red roan standing quietly by the side of his mate. A bit of crumpled paper was pinned to the blanket. Breem read:
I rode your horse. I had to. I'll surely make it right.
Bennett.