suggested. Transley had learned, what women are said to have learned
long ago, that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and the
cook had carte blanche. Not a man who ate at Transley's table but would
have spilt his blood for the boss or for the honor of the gang.

The meal was nearing its end when through a window Linder's eye caught
sight of a man on horseback rapidly approaching. "Visitors, Transley,"
he was able to say before the rider pulled up at the open door of the
covered wagon.

He was such a rider as may still be seen in those last depths of the
ranching country where wheels have not entirely crowded Romance off
of horseback. Spare and well-knit, his figure had a suggestion of
slightness which the scales would have belied. His face, keen and
clean-shaven, was brown as the August hills, and above it his broad hat
sat in the careless dignity affected by the gentlemen of the plains. His
leather coat afforded protection from the heat of day and from the cold
of night.

"Good evening, men," he said, courteously. "Don't let me disturb your
meal. Afterwards perhaps I can have a word with the boss."

"That's me," said Transley, rising.

"No, don't get up," the stranger protested, but Transley insisted that
he had finished, and, getting down from the wagon, led the way a little
distance from the eager ears of its occupants.

"My name is Grant," said the stranger; "Dennison Grant. I am employed by
Mr. Landson, who has a ranch down the valley. If I am not mistaken you