"You wouldn't remember me," explained the rancher. "I came in while you were gone, and only saw you the day you returned." The reminiscent look reappeared. "I used to know Landor pretty well when we were on the other side of the river, before the country settled up; but when we came over here we got too far apart and lost track of each other."
The visitor smoked a full minute in meditative silence. At last he glanced up.
"You knew he was dead, didn't you?"
"Yes. And the two youngsters grew up and got married and—" Hawkins laughed peculiarly—"made a fizzle of it."
"Knew them personally, did you?" queried Manning.
"No. I haven't seen the young folks for ten years, and I haven't even heard anything of them for six months now." He twirled the cigar with his fingers in the self-consciousness of unaccustomed gossip. "The girl went East with Landor's nephew, Craig, afterward, I understood."
"Yes."
Hawkins puffed at the cigar fiercely; then blew an avenue in the cloud of smoke obscuring his companion's face.
"I'm not usually so confoundedly curious," he apologised, "but, knowing the circumstances, I've often wondered how the affair ended. Did they hit it off well together?"
Manning settled farther back in his chair. One of his gnarled old hands fastened of a sudden upon the arm tightly.