So, with mind both busy and absent, Kurt Dorn harrowed the fallow ground
abandoned by his men; and when the day was done, with the sun setting
hot and coppery beyond the dim, dark ranges, he guided the tired horses
homeward and plodded back of them, weary and spent.

He was to learn from Morgan, at the stables, that the old man had
discharged both Andrew and Jansen. And Jansen, liberating some newly
assimilated poison, had threatened revenge. He would see that any hired
men would learn a thing or two, so that they would not sign up with
Chris Dorn. In a fury the old man had driven Jansen out into the road.

Sober and moody, Kurt put the horses away, and, washing the dust grime
from sunburnt face and hands, he went to his little attic room, where he
changed his damp and sweaty clothes. Then he went down to supper with
mind made up to be lenient and silent with his old and sorely tried
father.

Chris Dorn sat in the light of the kitchen lamps. He was a huge man with
a great, round, bullet-shaped head and a shock of gray hair and
bristling, grizzled beard. His face was broad, heavy, and seemed sodden
with dark, brooding thought. His eyes, under bushy brows, were pale
gleams of fire. He looked immovable as to both bulk and will.

Never before had Kurt Dorn so acutely felt the fixed, contrary, ruthless
nature of his parent. Never had the distance between them seemed so
great. Kurt shivered and sighed at once. Then, being hungry, he fell to
eating in silence. Presently the old man shoved his plate back, and,
wiping his face, he growled, in German:

"I discharged Andrew and Jansen."