“Are you sure, Marsh?”
“You bet I’m sure.”
For several moments they looked at each other, the old lady with tearful eyes; the big man, whose thin lips showed in a white line now, his eyes filled with pain.
“It hurts you, too, Marsh?” she whispered.
“Hurts? Good God, it hurts! He’s as much my son as yours, Mother. The men all know this. They don’t say anythin’ to me, and I’m tryin’ to put myself in their place. I’m tryin’ to forget that it’s my son, but it can’t be done, Mother.”
He shut his jaw and turned away. Al Curt, a thin-faced, narrow-shouldered cowpuncher from the Turkey Track, was riding in at the main gate, so Marsh Hartwell waited for him to come up.
“Mornin’, Curt,” he said hoarsely.
“Mornin’. How’s everythin’ along yore line, Marsh?”
“Quiet. I just left there.”
“Plenty quiet on our end, too. They ain’t got the sheep down that far yet. Didja know anythin’ about a lot of shootin’ that was goin’ on early this mornin’ over near the old Morgan place?”