been made by wild
turkeys.

The trail divided at this pond. Jean had no idea which branch he ought
to take. "Reckon it doesn't matter," he muttered, as he was about to
remount. His horse was standing with ears up, looking back along the
trail. Then Jean heard a clip-clop of trotting hoofs, and presently
espied a horseman.

Jean made a pretense of tightening his saddle girths while he peered
over his horse at the approaching rider. All men in this country were
going to be of exceeding interest to Jean Isbel. This man at a
distance rode and looked like all the Arizonians Jean had seen, he had
a superb seat in the saddle, and he was long and lean. He wore a huge
black sombrero and a soiled red scarf. His vest was open and he was
without a coat.

The rider came trotting up and halted several paces from Jean

"Hullo, stranger!" he said, gruffly.

"Howdy yourself!" replied Jean. He felt an instinctive importance in
the meeting with the man. Never had sharper eyes flashed over Jean and
his outfit. He had a dust-colored, sun-burned face, long, lean, and
hard, a huge sandy mustache that hid his mouth, and eyes of piercing
light intensity. Not very much hard Western experience had passed by
this man, yet he was not old, measured by years. When he dismounted
Jean saw he was tall, even for an Arizonian.

"Seen your tracks back a ways," he said, as he slipped the bit to let
his horse drink. "Where bound?"

"Reckon I'm lost, all right," replied Jean. "New country for me."

"Shore. I seen thet from your tracks an' your last camp. Wal, where
was you headin' for before you got lost?"

The query was deliberately cool, with a dry, crisp ring. Jean felt the
lack of friendliness or kindliness in it.

"Grass Valley. My name's Isbel," he replied, shortly.

The rider attended to his drinking horse and presently rebridled him;
then with long swing of leg he appeared to step into the saddle.

"Shore I knowed you was Jean Isbel," he said. "Everybody in the Tonto
has heerd old Gass Isbel sent fer his boy."

"Well then, why did you ask?" inquired Jean, bluntly.

"Reckon I wanted to see what you'd say."

"So? All right. But I'm not carin' very much for what YOU say."

Their glances locked steadily then and each measured the other by the
intangible conflict of spirit.

"Shore thet's natural," replied the rider. His speech was slow, and
the motions of his long, brown hands, as he took a cigarette from his
ve