The unexpected return of the "Governor," as the Englishmen had named Bull Langdon, was an exciting event in their hitherto pleasant lives. He arrived late on a March afternoon, the snort of his engine and the honk of his horn arousing the "hands" from a siesta, where, stretched before a raging wood fire, they drowsily smoked and read.

They dressed leisurely in warm fur coats and overshoes, before answering his impatient summons, and sauntering out in their own good time, smiled good-humoredly at the shouting cowman.

"Here, you! Take this in. Ain't no fire to the house. Want it thawed out."

The first of the Englishmen, whose long name need not appear here—"Bo" is what Bull Langdon called him—took the bundle in his hands and then almost dropped it, for something moved inside it, and a sound that was like a suffocated moan arose from its mysterious depths.

"My word! The thing's alive, d'you know," exclaimed the startled Englishman. "Hang it all, man, I believe it's a baby."

"Take it to the bunkhouse," roared the Bull, backing into the garage. "Thaw it out."

Gingerly carried into the bunkhouse by the amazed "Bo" and deposited upon the cot that he himself had but recently reposed upon, the baby continued its low, moaning cries. Both the little bare feet had kicked out from the sheepskin coat, and were frozen stiff. One minute fist stuck out of the coat, and there was a great swelling on the forehead, where he had fallen off the seat of the car to the floor. Its whole body, in fact, was bruised from the cruel bumping of that long mad ride from Yankee Valley, a distance of thirty-five miles.

"Cutie," the name sneeringly imposed upon the other Englishman by Bull Langdon, because of his natty dress and his monocle, now stuck that despised piece of glass in his right eye, and surveyed the child with amazement. Its cries were growing fainter, and a kind of frozen rigor was creeping over it.

"Well, what're you gapin' at?" Bull Langdon was glowering in the doorway.

"Where in the world did you pick the little beggar up?" inquired "Bo."

"It ain't none o' your business," was the surly retort. "He's here, and he's here to stay. He's mine, and he's got my brand on him."

"You don't mean to say that you brand babies in this country! Never heard of such a thing! It's damned inhuman, I should say."

"Don't matter what you say or think. I want that kid thawed out. Give 'im something to eat. He's cold and hungry, but he's healthy young stuff and 'll pull through. Kids ain't no different to cattle. Feed 'em and keep 'em warm. That's all they need. He's bawlin' now for feed. You got something handy?"

"Nothing but a bite of cold venison. Hardly the stuff for a baby."

"He ain't no baby. He's a yearling. Here!"

He had torn a strip of the venison from the piece, and had thrust it into the child's hand. The tiny fingers closed feebly about the meat and then feebly unclosed. The bright eyes, so like his mother's, opened in one wide, blind stare, then the white lids came down over them, closing the light out forever.

"Gone to sleep," grunted the cowman. "Keep the fire goin'. Thaw him out and feed him. That's the stuff. He'll come round. He's good stuff. I'm off for the timber. Be back soon. You ain't much good neither of you at tendin' to cattle. So I'll give you a nurse maid's job. Let the cattle rustle for themselves. You concentrate on—". He indicated with a jerk of his thumb Nettie's child, now quite still where it lay.

Alone, the two Englishmen continued to look at each other, astonished out of speech.

"Well, I'm hanged," said "Bo" at last, "absolutely hanged. What's to do?"

"Carn't say any more than you can. Blessed if I know the first thing about a baby."

"Cutie" was looking down sentimentally now at the small blonde head.

"It's awfully quiet, isn't it? Doesn't seem—" He touched the tiny hand. It was cold as ice, and all of a sudden the two men looking down on that little frozen thing realized the truth.

"By Jove!" whispered the one. "The little beggar's dead, d'you know."

Their eyes met apprehensively.

"What's to do?"

"Gad, I wish I knew."

"It's a dashed serious matter."

"Rather!"

"I'll plug over to the house and telephone. Where'd he say he was going?—er to timber something. I wonder what his telephone number might be."

"Try Information. She should know."

But Information knew of no timber number, but when the stuttering Englishman made clear to her that there was a dead baby at Bar Q, she connected him swiftly with the Provincial Police Station at Cochrane, and a voice at that end promised after a series of impatient questions to "look into it," and "Bo" hung up.

The charm of "rawnching" was over for the Englishmen. All the rest of that afternoon they sat in somber silence in the bunkhouse, carefully averting their eyes from the small covered head. They had no heart for their usual evening meal, but contented themselves with strong tea and smoking steadily upon their pipes.

It was nearly dark when the sound of a motor along the road was heard, and then the labored panting of the engine as it made the steep grade to the ranch. The two young men hoped the police had come, not knowing that the solitary mounty who had been despatched upon the case was coming by horse twenty-eight miles from the ranch, and could not arrive for several hours. When the Englishmen opened the door of the bunkhouse, they were surprised to see a woman running swiftly ahead of the fur-coated doctor, whose acquaintance they had already made.

Their first thought was that Angella was the mother, and indeed she might well have been as she threw herself down beside Nettie's baby, and burst into uncontrolled, despairing sobs over the little dead body.