et, but the glow of it still
lingered in the west. Glinting like a flame on the windows of the
ranch-house, it even dappled the placid waters of the little stream with
red-gold splotches, which mingled effectively with the mirrored
reflections of the overhanging trees. From the kitchen chimney a wisp of
smoke rose straight into the still clear air. In a corner of the corral
half a dozen horses were bunched, lazily switching their tails at
intervals. Through one of the pastures across the stream some cattle
drifted, idly feeding their way to water.

It was a peaceful picture, yet Stratton could not rid his mind of the
curious feeling that the peacefulness was all on the surface. He had not
missed that swift exchange of glances that heralded his first appearance
in the bunk-house; and though Slim McCabe particularly had been almost
effusively affable, Buck was none the less convinced that his presence
here was unwelcome. That business of the branding-iron, too, was puzzling.
Was it merely a bit of rough but harmless horse-play or had it a deeper
meaning? Bud did not look like a fellow to lose his nerve easily, and the
iron had certainly been hot enough to brand even the tough hide of a
three-year-old steer.

Buck glanced sidewise at his companion to find the blue eyes studying his
face with a keen, questioning scrutiny. They were hastily withdrawn, and a
faint color crept up, darkening the youngster's tan.

"Trying to size me up," thought Stratton interestedly. "He's got something
on his chest, too."

But he gave no sign of what was in his mind. A moment or two later he
paused and, leaning indolently against a tree, let his gaze sweep idly
over the cattle in the near-by pasture.

"Looks to me like a pretty good bunch of steers," he commented, and then
added carelessly: "What sort of a guy is this Tex Lynch, anyhow?"

Bud hesitated briefly, sending a swift, momentary glance toward the
bunk-house.

"Oh, he's all right, I guess," he answered slowly.

Stratton grinned. "If you don't look out you'll be overpraising him, kid,"
he chuckled.

Jessup shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't say I liked him," he defended.
"He knows his business all right."

"Oh, sure. Otherwise, I s'pose he wouldn't hold down his job. But what I
want to know is the kind of boss he is. Does he treat the fellows white,
or is he a sneak?"

Bud's face darkened. "He treats some of 'em white enough," he snapped.

"That so? Favorites, eh? I've met