n' the baby?"

"They stayed hum. The baby'd squall. Pa an' the boys is goin' to mend
fence, an' I'm a-goin' to stay yere an' he'p her clean up the sheep
camp."

The cowpuncher turned to Watts. "What's the big hurry about the
fences, Watts? You goin' to take over a bunch of stock?"

"Hosses," answered Watts with an important jerk at his scraggly beard.
"I done rented the upper pasture to a man name o' Schultz over in
Blackfoot country. Five dollars a month, I git fer hit, an' five
dollars fer every day er night they's hosses in hit. He done paid two
months' rent a'ready."

Vil Holland's brows puckered slightly. "Schultz, you say? Over in the
Blackfoot country?"

"Yas, he's aimin' to trail hosses from there over into Canady an' he
wants some pastures handy."

"Did Schultz see you about it himself?" asked Vil, casually.

"No, Monk Bethune; he come by this way, an' he taken the pasture for
Schultz."

Patty noted an almost imperceptible narrowing of the cowpuncher's
eyes, an expression, slight as it was, that spoke disapproval. The
man's attitude angered her. Here was poor Watts, about to undertake
the first work he had done in years, judging by the condition of the
ranch, under stimulus of the few dollars promised him by Bethune, and
this cowboy disapproved. "Are horses under the ban, too?" she asked
quickly. "Hasn't Mr. Watts the right to rent his land for a horse
pasture?"

The man's answer seemed studiously rude in its direct brevity. "No,
horses ain't under the ban. Yes, Watts can rent his land where he
wants to. Good day." Before the girl could reply he reined his horse
abruptly about, and disappeared in the timber upon the opposite side
of the creek.

"Reckon I better be gittin' 'long, too," said Watts. "Microby's
welcome to stay an' he'p yo'-all git moved in, but please mom, to
see't she gits started fer hum 'fore dark. Hit takes thet ol' pinto
'bout a hour to make the trip."

Patty promised, and unsaddling, picketed her horse, and joined the
girl in the dusty interior of the cabin. The musty hay, the discarded
garments, and the two bushels or more of odds and ends with which the
pack rats had filled the cupboard made a smudgy, smelly bonfire beside
which Patty paused with an armful of discarded magazines. "Wouldn't
you like to take these home?" she asked.

"Which?" inquired Microby, deftly picking a small stick from the
ground with her bare toes and tossing it into the fire.

"These magazines. The