w you've got some
fool notion that you ought to pull _your_ freight. If it's anything
botherin' you, why, open your yap, an' we'll sure salivate that thing!"

"I ain't mentionin'," said Randerson. "But it ain't you boys. You've
suited me mighty well. I'm sure disturbed in my mind over leavin' you."

"Then why leave at all?" said Owen, his face long.

But Randerson evaded this direct question. "An' you standin' in line for
my job?" he said in pretended astonishment. "Why, I reckon you ought to
be the most tickled because I'm goin'!"

"Well, if it's a go, I reckon we'll have to stand for it," said Blair a
little later, as Randerson mounted his pony. Their parting words were
short, but eloquent in the sentiment left unsaid.

"So long," Randerson told them as he rode away. And "so long" came the
chorus behind him, not a man omitting the courtesy.

They stood in a group, watching him as he faded into the distance toward
the ranchhouse.

"Somethin' is botherin' him mighty bad," said Owen, frowning.

"He's made the outfit feel like a lost doggie," grumbled Blair. "The
blamed cuss is grievin' over somethin'." And they went disconsolately to
their work.

Randerson rode on his way. He felt a little relieved. No longer was he
bound by his job; he was now a free agent and could do as he pleased. And
it would please him to settle his differences with Masten. He would "go
gunnin' for him" with a vengeance.

It was about noon when he rode in to the ranchhouse. He did not turn his
pony into the corral, but hitched it to one of the columns of the porch,
for he intended to go on to the Diamond H as soon as he could get his
belongings packed. If his old job was still open (he had heard that it
was) he would take it, or another in case the old one had been filled. In
any event, he would leave the Flying W.

Dejection was heavy in his heart when he crossed the porch to go to his
room, for he had liked it here; it had been more like the home of his
ideals than any he had yet seen. For his imagination and affection had
been at work, and in Aunt Martha he had seen a mother--such a mother as
he could have wished his own to be, had she lived. And Uncle Jepson! The
direct-talking old gentleman had captivated him; between them was
respect, understanding, and admiration that could hardly have been deeper
between father and son.

But he felt reluctant to tell them of his decision to go, he wanted to
delay it--if possible, he did not wa