As he meditated upon the situation the scowl on his face changed to an appreciative grin.
Now that he had decided to stay here he did not purpose to go hungry when there was food around.
Shouldering his saddle he left the office and proceeded to the stable, in which he had placed his pony the night before.

He fed the animal from a pitiful supply of grain in a bin, and after slamming the door of the stable viciously, sneering at it as it resisted, he stalked to the ranchhouse.
There was a tin basin on a bench just outside the kitchen door.

He poured it half full of water from a pail that sat on the porch floor, and washed his hands and face, noting, while engaged in his task, a clean towel hanging from a roller on the wall of the ranchhouse.

While drying his face he heard voices from within, subdued, anxious.
Completing his ablutions he stepped to the screen door, threw it open and stood on the threshold.
In the center of the kitchen stood a table covered with a white cloth on which were dishes filled with food from which arose promising odors.
Beside a window in the opposite wall of the kitchen stood Malcolm Clayton.

He was facing Calumet, and apparently had recovered from the encounter of the night before.