"Good-bye Landor," he said then simply.
Not the words themselves, but something in the tone caused the rancher
to halt, to look back.
"Good-day, you mean, rather," he corrected.
"No, good-bye. You will not see me again."
"You don't mean--"
"No. I'm too much of a coward for that, or I should have done so long
ago. I merely mean I'll move on to-morrow."
Face to face the two men stood staring at each other. Seconds drifted
by. It was the doctor who spoke at last.
"God knows that if I could, I'd change with you even now, Landor," he
said repressedly. "I'd change with you gladly." A moment he stood so,
tense as a wire drawn to the point of breaking, ghastly tense; then of a
sudden he went lax. Instinctively his fingers sought his pockets, and
there where he stood he started swiftly to roll a cigarette.
"Go, please," he requested. "Good-bye."
CHAPTER IX
THE VOICE OF THE WILD
Eight miles out on the prairie, out of sight of the Buffalo Butte ranch
house--save for a scattering herd of grazing cattle in the distance, and
a hobbled mouse-coloured broncho feeding near at hand, out of sight of
every living thing--a man lay stretched full length upon the ground. It
was the time of day that Landor had tried the door of Bob Manning's
store, and the broad brim of the man's hat was pulled far forward to
keep the glitter from his eyes. Under his head was a rolled-up blanket;
an Indian blanket that even so showed against the brown earth in a blot
of glaring colour.
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