"Good luck to you, Cotton," Tyrrell said. "Fetch him back—tell him not to trouble about the sheep till the fog lifts. He can do nothing till then, and he's better sitting over a fire than out there."
"Aye, that's right, sir. I'll find Weelum an' do my best."
He took four steps, and was no more than an indistinct shadow: two more, and he had vanished altogether, while, such was the deadening quality of the fog, even the sound of his footsteps ceased to reach Tyrrell and Gees by the doorway. The stillness about them was absolute.
"I wonder why he didn't want you?" Gees reflected aloud.
"Wants to go his own way, and is afraid I might give orders, I expect," Tyrrell said. "Also I know none of them like my friendship with the McCouls. It's made a difference, but"—a note of determination cam
