"I was wondering what he did with it.

So that's what." He relapsed into a grim silence, and Owen did not speak again.
They rode several miles in that fashion--Owen keeping his horse slightly behind Sanderson's, his gaze on the other's face, his own white with remorse and anxiety.
At last he heard Sanderson laugh, and the sound of it made him grit his teeth in impotent agony.
"Sanderson," he said, gulping, "I'm sorry." "Sure," returned the other.

"If I hadn't wised up to that quite a spell ago, you'd be back on the trail, waitin' for some coyote to come along an' get his supper." They rode in silence for a long time.

They came to the gentle slope of the basin and began to climb it.
A dozen times Owen rode close to Sanderson, his lips trembling over unuttered words, but each time he dropped back without speaking.

His eyes, fixed worshipfully on the back of the big, silent man ahead of him, were glowing with anxiety and wonder.
In the ghostly darkness of the time before the gray forerunner of the dawn appears on the horizon they came in sight of the Double A ranchhouse.
Sanderson was still leading.