"
The cowpuncher was aware that the other stirred--not much, but as if he
winced from a drop of cold water; he felt that he was close on the trail
of the real reason why the Easterner wished to see Drew.
"A story about Drew's wife?"
"You read the writing on the headstone, eh?"
"'Joan, she chose this place for rest,'" quoted Bard.
"That was all before my time; it was before the time of any others in
these parts, but a few of the grey-beards know a bit about the story and
I've gathered a little of it from Drew, though he ain't much of a
talker."
"I'd like to hear it."
Sensitively aware of Bard, as a photographic plate is aware of light on
exposures, the cowpuncher went on with the tale.
And Bard, his glance probing among the shadowy rafters of the room,
seemed to be searching there for the secret on whose trail he rode.
Through the interims the rain crashed and volleyed on the roof above
them; the cold spray whipped down on them through the cracks; the wind
shook and rattled the crazy house; and the drawling voice of Nash went
on and on.
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