McLoud and Dicksie

McCloud stiffened a little. "I hope that can't be true. We have had nothing here but rumors; perhaps it is these that you have heard."

"No, no! Blake, one of our men, was in the fight and got back at the ranch at nine o'clock this morning. I heard the story myself, and I rode right in to--to see Marion, and my courage failed me--I came here first. Does she know, do you think? Blake saw him fall from the saddle after he was shot, and everybody ran away, and Du Sang and two other men were firing at him as he lay on the ground. He could not possibly have escaped with his life, Blake said; he must have been riddled with bullets. Isn't it terrible?" She sobbed suddenly, and McCloud, stunned at her words, led her to his chair and bent over her.

"If his death means this to you, think of what it means to me!"

A flood of sympathy bore them together. The moment was hardly one for interruption, but the despatcher's door opened and Rooney Lee halted, thunderstruck, on the threshold.

Dicksie's hand disappeared in her handkerchief. McCloud had been in wrecks before, and gathered himself together unmoved. "What is it, Rooney?"

The very calmness of the two at the table disconcerted the despatcher. He held the message in his hand and shuffled his feet. "Give me your despatch," said McCloud impatiently.

Quite unable to take his hollow eyes off Dicksie, poor Rooney advanced, handed the telegram to McCloud, and beat an awkward retreat.