In a small clearing among these willows sat Silent and his companions.
A fifth member had just arrived at this rendezvous, answered the quiet
greeting with a wave of his hand, and was now busy caring for his
horse. Bill Kilduff, who had a natural inclination and talent for
cookery, raked up the deft dying coals of the fire over which he had
cooked the supper, and set about preparing bacon and coffee for the
newcomer. The latter came forward, and squatted close to the cook,
watching the process with a careful eye. He made a sharp contrast with
the rest of the group. From one side his profile showed the face of
a good-natured boy, but when he turned his head the flicker of the
firelight ran down a scar which gleamed in a jagged semi-circle from
his right eyebrow to the corner of his mouth. This whole side of his
countenance was drawn by the cut, the mouth stretching to a perpetual
grimace. When he spoke it was as if he were attempting secrecy. The
rest of the men waited in patience until he finished eating. Then
Silent asked: "What news, Jordan?"
Jordan kept his regretful eyes a moment longer on his empty coffee
cup.
"There ain't a pile to tell," he answered at last.
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