eared.

Watching the retreating figure, Sidwell's black eyes tightened, but he
returned and took the place Scotty had vacated. He gave his companion a
glance which, swift as a flash of light upon a sensitized plate, took in
every detail of the figure, the bizarre dress, the striking face.

"You are from the West, I judge, Mr. Blair?" he interrogated.

"Dakota," said Ben, laconically.

Sidwell's gaze centred on the sombrero. "Cattle raising, perhaps?" he
ventured.

Ben nodded. "Yes, I have a few head east of the river." He returned the
other's look, and Sidwell had the impression that a searchlight was
suddenly shifted upon him. "Ever been out there?"

The city man indicated an affirmative. "Yes, twice: the last time about
four years ago. I went out on purpose to see a steer-roping contest, on
the ranch of a man by the name of Gilbert, I remember. A cowboy they
called Pete carried off the honors; had his 'critter' down and tied in
forty-two seconds. They told me that was slow time, but I thought it
lightning itself."

"The trick can be done in thirty-five with the wildest," commented Ben.

Sidwell looked out on the narrow street meditatively. "I think that
cowboy exhibition," he went on slowly, "was the most typically American
scene I have ever witnessed. The recklessness, the dash, the splendid
animal activity--there's never been anything like it in the world." His
eyes returned to Ben's face. "Ever hear of Gilbert, did you?"

"I live within twenty-three miles of him."

Sidwell looked interested. "What ranch, if I may ask?"

"The Right Angle Triangle we call it."

"Oh, yes," Sidwell nodded in recollection. "Rankin is the proprietor--a
big man with a grandfather's-shay buckboard. I saw him while I was
there."

Involuntarily one of Ben's long legs swung over the other. "That's the
place! You have a good memory."

Sidwell smiled. "I couldn't help having in this case. He reminded me of
the satraps of ancient Persia. He was monarch of all he surveyed."

Ben said nothing.

"He's still the big man of the country, I presume?"

"He is dead."

"Dead?"

"I said so."

The light of understanding came to the city man. "I see," he observed.
"He is gone, and you--"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Sidwell," interrupted the other, "but suppose we
change the subject?"

Sidwell colored, then he laughed. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Blair. No
offence was intended, I assure you. Mr. Rankin interested me, that was
all."

A