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“Well?”

“Do you know the country south of here?”

The stranger’s eyes narrowed.

“Proceed,” said he.

“I’m foreman of the Lazy Y of Soda Springs Valley range,” explained Parker. “I’m looking for a man with sand enough and sabe of the country enough to lead a posse after cattle-rustlers into the border country.”

“I live in this country,” admitted the stranger.

“So do plenty of others, but their eyes stick out like two raw oysters when you mention the border country. Will you tackle it?”

“What’s the proposition?”

“Come and see the old man. He’ll put it to you.”

They mounted their horses and rode the rest of the day. The desert compassed them about, marvellously changing shape and colour, and every character, with all the noiselessness of phantasmagoria. At evening the desert stars shone steady and unwinking, like the flames of candles. By moonrise they came to the home ranch.

The buildings and corrals lay dark and silent against the moonlight that made of the plain a sea of mist. The two men unsaddled their horses and turned them loose in the wire-fenced “pasture,” the necessary noises of their movements sounding sharp and clear against the velvet hush of the night. After a moment they walked stiffly past the sheds and cook shanty, past the men’s bunk houses, and the tall windmill silhouetted against the sky, to the main building of the home ranch under its great cottonwoods. There a light still burned, for this was the third day, and Buck Johnson awaited his foreman.

Jed Parker pushed in without ceremony.

“Here’s your man, Buck,” said he.

The stranger had stepped inside and carefully closed the door behind him. The lamplight threw into relief the bold, free lines of his face, the details of his costume powdered thick with alkali, the shiny butts of the two guns in their open holsters tied at the bottom. Equally it defined the resolute countenance of Buck Johnson turned up in inquiry. The two men examined each other–and liked each other at once.

“How are you,” greeted the cattleman.

“Good-evening,” responded the stranger.

“Sit down,” invited Buck Johnson.

The stranger perched gingerly on the edge of a chair, with an appearance less of embarrassment than of habitual alertness.

“You’ll take the job?” inquired the Senor.

“I haven’t heard what it is,” replied the stranger.

“Parker here–?”

“Said you’d explain.”

“Very well,” said Buck Johnson. He paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. “There’s too much cattle-rustling here. I’m going to stop it. I’ve got good men here ready to take the job, but no one who knows the country south. Three days ago I had a bunch of cattle stolen right here from the home-ranch corrals, and by one man, at that. It wasn’t much of a bunch–about twenty head–but I’m going to make a starter right here, and now. I’m going to get that bunch back, and the man who stole them, if I have to go to hell to do it. And I’m going to do the same with every case of rustling that comes up from now on. I don’t care if it’s only one cow, I’m going to get it back–every trip. Now, I want to know if you’ll lead a posse down into the south country and bring out that last bunch, and the man who rustled them?”

“I don’t know–” hesitated the stranger.

“I offer you five thousand dollars in gold if you’ll bring back those cows and the man who stole ’em,” repeated Buck Johnson. “And I’ll give you all the horses and men you think you need.”

“I’ll do it,” replied the two-gun man promptly.

“Good!” cried Buck Johnson, “and you better start to-morrow.”

“I shall start to-night–right now.”

“Better yet. How many men do you want, and grub for how long?”

“I’ll play her a lone hand.”

“Alone!” exclaimed Johnson, his confidence visibly cooling.

“Alone! Do you think you can make her?”

“I’ll be back with those cattle in not more than ten days.”