Wind and hard weather and a thousand suns
had marked them, and the hand of man had branded them. Here and there
was a touch of gray in their hair, and about the mouth of each were
lines which in such silent moments as this one gave an expression
of yearning.
"What's up? What's wrong?" asked Wilbur from the door, but since no
answer was deigned he said no more.
But Pierre, like a charmed man who dares to walk among lions, strolled
easily through the room, and looked into the face of big Boone, who
smiled faintly up to him, and Black Gandil, who scowled doubly dark,
and Bud Mansie, who shifted uneasily in his chair and then nodded, and
finally to Branch. He dropped a hand on the massive shoulder of the
blacksmith.
"Well?" he asked.
Branch let himself droop back into his chair. His big, dull, colorless
eyes stared up to his friend.
"I dunno, lad. I'm just weary with the sort of tired that you can't
help by sleepin'. Understand?"
Pierre nodded, slowly, because he sympathized. "And the trouble?"
Branch stared about as if searching for a reason.
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