as a feminine
cause for these numerous unusual effects; but he did not for a minute
suppose it to be the thin, sharp-tongued woman who had been washing behind
the cook-house as he rode up to the corral. Now, as he pondered, he
thought again about it. But only for a minute; other things of vaster
importance held him.

Although but two men had spoken during the conversation, three were in the
room. The third was a man of medium height, lowering looks, and slow
tongue. His hair was black, and he had the appearance of always needing a
shave. He was trained down to perfect condition by his years on the
plains, and was as wiry and tough as the cow pony he rode. He was Black
Mike Stelton, foreman of the Bar T.

"What do you think, Mike?" asked Bissell, when Larkin made no attempt to
continue the argument.

"Same's you, boss," was the reply in a heavy voice. "I wouldn't let them
sheep on the range, not noways. Sheep is the ruination of any grass
country."

"There you see, Mr. Larkin," said Bissell with an expressive motion of his
hand. "Stelton's been out here in the business fifteen years and says the
same as I do. How long did you say you had been in the West?"

"One year," replied Larkin, flushing to the roots of his hair beneath his
tanned but not weather-beaten skin. "Came from Chicago."

"From down East, eh? Well, my woman was to St. Paul once, and she's never
got over it; but it don't seem to have spoiled you none."

Larkin grinned and replied in kind, but all the time he was trying to
determine what stand to take. He had expected to meet opposition to
"walking" his sheep north--in fact, had met it steadily--but up to this
point had managed to get his animals through. Now he was fifty miles ahead
of the first flock and had reached the Bar T ranch an hour before dinner.

Had he been a suspected horse-thief, the unwritten social etiquette of the
plains would have provided him with food and lodging as long as he cared
to stay. Consequently when he had caught the reflection of the setting sun
against the walls of the ranch house, he had turned Pinte's head in the
direction of the corral.

Then, in the living-room, though no questions had been asked, Larkin had
brought up the much-dreaded subject himself, as his visit was partly for
that purpose.

He had much to contend with. In the first place, being a sheepman, he was
absolutely without caste in the cattle country, where men who went in for
the "woolly idiots,"