rouble
around 'fore we're weeks older."

"Who is he?"

"Who is he? Wal, I 'lows that's a big question. Guess ther' ain't no
real sayin'. Some sez he's from across the border, some sez he's a
Breed, some sez he's the feller called Duncan, as used to run a bum
saloon in Whitewater, an' shot a man in his own bar an' skipped. No
one rightly knows, 'cep' he's real 'bad,' an' duffs nigh on to a
thousand head o' stock most every year."

"Then what's to be done?" Tresler asked, watching the little man's
twisted face as he munched his tobacco.

"What's to be done? Wal, I don't rightly know. Say, what wus you doin'
around that house? I ain't askin' fer cur'osity. Ye see, if you got
tellin' Jake as you wus round ther', it's likely he'd git real mad. Y'
see, Jake's dead sweet on Miss Dianny. It gives him the needle that
I'm around that house. O' course, ther' ain't nuthin' wi' me an' Miss
Dianny, 'cep' we're kind o' friendly. But Jake's that mean-sperrited
an' jealous. She hates him like pizen. I know, 'cos I'm kind o'
friendly wi' her, so to speak, meanin' nuthin', o' course. But that
ain't the point. If you wus to tell him he'd make your head swim."

"Oh, hang Jake!" exclaimed Tresler, impatiently; "I'm sick to death of
hearing of his terrorizing. He can't eat me----"

"No, but he'll make you wish he could," put in the choreman, quietly.

"He'd find me a tough mouthful," Tresler laughed.

"Mebbe. How came you around that house?"

"I simply wandered there by chance. I was smoking and taking a stroll.
I'd been all round the ranch."

"That wouldn't suit Jake. No." Joe was silent for a moment.

Tresler waited. At last the little man made a move and spat out his
chew.

"That's it," he said, slapping his thigh triumphantly--"that's it,
sure. Say, we needn't to tell Jake nuthin'. I'll git around among the
boys, an' let 'em know as I heerd tell of Red Mask bein' in the region
o' the Bend, an' how a Breed give me warnin', bein' scared to come
along to the ranch lest Red Mask got wind of it an' shut his head
lights fer him. Ther' ain't no use in rilin' Jake. Meanin' for you.
He's layin' fer you anyways, as I'm guessin' you'll likely know.
Savee? Lie low, most as low as a dead cat in a well. I'll play this
hand, wi'out you figgerin' in it; which, fer you, I guess is best."

Tresler got up and dusted his clothes. There was a slight pause while
he fingered the leather-capped stirrups of the stock saddle on the
wall.

Joe gr