Ben Blair. Will Lillibridge
glorious, the slanting rays of the low afternoon sun. A moment the boy lay gazing out; then he crawled to his feet, shaking off the dirt as a dog does. One glance about, and the blue eyes halted. A moisture came into them, gathered into drops, and then, breaking over the barrier of the long lashes, tears flowed through the accumulated grime, down the thin cheeks, leaving a clean pathway behind. That was all, for an instant; then a look—terrible in a mature person and doubly so in a child—came over the long face,—an expression partaking of both hate and vengeance. It mirrored an emotion that in a nature such as that of Benjamin Blair would never be forgotten. Some day, for some one, there would be a moment of reckoning; for the child was looking at the charred, unrecognizable corpse of his mother.
A half-hour later, Rankin, steaming into the yard of the Big B Ranch, came upon a scene that savored much of a play. It was so dramatic that the big man paused in contemplation of it. He saw there the sod and ashes of what had once been a home. The place must have burned like tinder, for now, but a few hours from the time when Grannis had first given the alarm, not an atom of smoke ascended. At one end of the quadrangular space enclosed by the walls stood the makeshift stove, discolored with the heat, as was the length of pipe by its side. Near by was a heap of warped iron and tin cooking utensils. At one side, covered by an old gunny-sack and a boy's tattered coat, was another object the form of which the observer could not distinguish.
In the middle of the plat, standing a few inches below the surface, was a small boy, and in his hands a very large spade. He wore a man's discarded shirt, with sleeves rolled up at the wrist, and neck-band pinned tight at one side. Obviously, he had been digging, for a small pile of fresh dirt was heaped at his right. Now, however, he was motionless, the blue eyes beneath the long lashes observing the new-comer inquiringly. That was all, save that to the picture was added the background of the unbroken silence of the prairie.
The man was the first to break the spell. He got out of the wagon clumsily, walked around the wall, and entered the quadrangle by what had been the door.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Digging," replied the boy, resuming his work.
"Digging what?"
The boy lifted out a double handful of dirt upon the big spade.
"A grave."
The man glanced about again.
"For some pet?"
The boy shook his head.
"No—sir," the latter word coming as an after-thought. His mother had taught him that title of respect.
Rankin changed the line of interrogation.
"Where's Tom Blair, young man?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Your mother, then, where is she?"
"My mother is dead."
"Dead?"
The child's blue eyes did not falter.
"I am digging her grave, sir."
For a time Rankin did not speak or stir. Amid the stubbly beard the great jaws closed, until it seemed the pipe-stem must be broken. His eyes narrowed, as when, before starting, he had questioned the cowboy Grannis; then of a sudden he rose and laid a detaining hand upon the worker's shoulder. He understood at last.
"Stop a minute, son," he said. "I want to talk with you."
The lad looked up.
"How did it happen—the fire and your mother's death?"
No answer, only the same strangely scrutinizing look.
Rankin repeated the question a bit curtly.
Ben Blair calmly removed the man's hand from his shoulder and looked him fairly in the eyes.
"Why do you wish to know, sir?" he asked.
The big man made no answer. Why did he wish to know? What answer could he give? He paced back and forth across the narrow confines of the four sod walls. Once he paused, gazing at the little lad questioningly, not as one looks at a child but as man faces man; then, tramp, tramp, he paced on again. At last, as suddenly as before, he halted, and glanced sidewise at the uncompleted grave.
"You're quite sure you want to bury your mother here?" he asked.
The lad nodded silently.
"And alone?"
Again the nod.
"Yes, I heard her say once she wished it so."
Without comment, Rankin removed his coat and took the spade from the boy's hand.
"I'll help you, then."
For a half-hour he worked steadily, descending lower and lower into the dry earth; then, pausing, he wiped the perspiration from his face.
"Are you cold, son?" he asked directly.
"Not very, sir." But the lad's teeth were chattering.
"A bit, though?"
"Yes, sir," simply.
"All right, you'll find some blankets out in the wagon, Ben. You'd better go out and get one and put it around you."
The boy started to obey. "Thank you, sir," he said.
Rankin returned to his work. In the west the sun dropped slowly beneath the horizon, leaving a wonderful golden light behind. The waiting horses, too well trained to move from their places, shifted uneasily amid much creaking of harness. Within the grave the digger's head sunk lower and lower, while the mound by the side grew higher and higher. The cold increased. Across the prairie, a multitude of black specks advanced, grew large, whizzed overhead, then retreated, their wings cutting the keen air, and silence returned.
Darkness was falling when at last Rankin clambered out to the surface.
"Another blanket, Ben, please."
Without a glance beneath, he wrapped the object under the old gunny-sack round and round with the rough wool winding-sheet, and, carrying it to the edge of the grave, himself descended clumsily and placed it gently at his feet. The pit was deep, and in getting out he slipped back twice; but he said nothing. Outside, he paused a moment, looking at the boy gravely.
"Anything you wish to say, Benjamin?"
The lad returned the gaze with equal gravity.
"I don't know of anything, sir."
The man paused a moment longer.
"Nor I, Ben," he said gently.
Again the spade resumed its work; and the impassive earth returned dully to its former resting-place. Dusk came on, but Rankin did not look about him until the mound was neatly rounded; then he turned to where he had left the little boy so bravely erect. But the small figure was not standing now; instead, it was prone on the ground amid the dust and ashes.
"Ben!" said Rankin, gently. "Ben!"
No answer.
"Ben!" he repeated.
"Yes, sir."
For a moment a small thin face appeared above the dishevelled figure, and a great sob shook the little frame. Then the head disappeared again.
"I can't help it, sir," wailed a muffled voice. "She was my mamma!"
Chapter IV.
Ben's New Home
Supper was over at the Box R Ranch. From the tiny lean-to the muffled rattle of heavy table-ware proclaimed the fact that Ma Graham was putting things in readiness for breakfast. Beside the sheet-iron heater in the front room, her husband, carefully swaddled in a big checked apron with the strings tied in a bow under his left ear, was busily engaged in dressing the