"Someone stayed at the north range last night," he announced abruptly. "He slept there and had a fire."
Ben showed no surprise. "I thought so, probably," he replied. "Late this afternoon I ran across a trail leading in from the west along our clearing, and headed that way. It was one lone chain of footprints."
Rankin shivered, and replenished the fire. His long drive had chilled him through and through.
"I suppose you have an idea who made that trail?" he said.
Though each knew that the other had heard the details of Pete's death, neither had mentioned the incident. To do so had seemed superfluous. Now, however, each realized the thought in the other's mind, and chose not to avoid it.
"Yes," answered Ben, simply. "I suppose it was made by Tom Blair."
Never before had Rankin heard Benjamin Blair speak that name. He stretched back heavily in his chair and lit his pipe afresh.
"Ben," he said, "I'm getting old. I never began to realize the fact until this Winter; but I sha'n't last many more years." Puff, puff went two twin clouds of smoke toward the ceiling. "Civilization has some advantages over the frontier, and this is one of them: it's kinder to the old."
Never before had Rankin spoken in this way, and the other understood the strength of his conviction.
"You work too hard," he said soberly, though he felt the inadequacy of the trite remark. "It's unnecessary. I wish you wouldn't do it."