His men--the regular punchers--were working far down in the basin, and there was no one in the house.
He sat for hours alone in his office, waiting for news of the men he had sent after Sanderson; and as the interval of their absence grew longer the dark forebodings that had assailed him when within hearing distance of the firing seized him again--grew more depressing, and he sat, gripping the arms of his chair, a clammy perspiration stealing over him.
He shook off the feeling at last, and stood up, scowling.
"That's what a man gets for givin' up to a damn fool notion like that," he said, thinking of the fear that had seized him while listening to the shooting.

"Once a man lets on he's afraid, the thing keeps a workin' on him till he's certain sure he's a coward.

Them boys didn't need me, anyway--they'll get Sanderson." So he justified his lack of courage, and spent some hours reading.

But at last the strain grew too great, and as the dusk came on he began to have thoughts of Dal Colton.

Ben Nyland must have reached home by this time.