It was twilight again at the Box M, and the Thunder Range had flung its
long shadows across valley and hill. Questions had been asked and
answered, until every one at the ranch understood the things that had
come to pass during the past few days. Flint Moore and his wife sat in
the little living-room, facing each other across the table in silent
contemplation of the future.
Wild stood in the lighted doorway, leaning against the door-sill,
looking at Pat, who was sitting on the porch steps. A string of shadowy
cattle figures drifted down past the fence, going to water. From
somewhere a calf bawled plaintively. High overhead a number of night
hawks skirled as they circled swiftly in search of food.
From down at the bunk-house came the voice of Jimmy Devlin singing “The
Holy City.” It was a new song to the range-land—sung in a slurring
tenor, which seemed to melt away into the night.
“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, lift up your voice and sing.”
“That is he,” said Mrs. Moore, leaning across the table toward her
husband. “Could a man who sings like that be bad, Flint?”
Flint Moore shook his head:
“No, mother. If Pat wants to marry him—he can’t be very bad. Listen,
Mary.”