Near it lay a blanket-covered figure that the dreaded stampede had crushed into a shape of which Whitey feared to think.
As the cowboys lowered the shape into the grave, Buck Milton turned his head away for a moment.

Then he said simply, "Tom was my pardner for nine years." And again, after a pause, "And who's goin' t' tell his gal over on the Little Divide ?" There seemed no need for words just then, for after their grief for their friend the men's faces showed the turn of thought to his murderers, the sheepmen.

Whitey never had seen the intent to kill come into men's faces before.

It was grim, but not repulsive, for in a way there was justice in it.

And poor Tom, who yesterday had been less than a name to Whitey, had now become the central figure in a tragedy.
But no one could have told what Injun thought.