tion. His eyes lingered long and fondly over the
exquisite lines of Satan. From behind, from the side, and in front, he
viewed the stallion while Dan rubbed down the legs of his mount with
a care which was most foreign to the ranges. Finally the cattleman
reached out a hand toward the smoothly muscled shoulders.

It was Calder who stood nearest and he managed to strike up Daniels's
extended arm and jerk him back from the region of danger.

"What'n hell is that for?" exclaimed Daniels.

"That horse is called Satan," said Calder, "and when any one save his
owner touches him he lives up to his name and raises hell."

Before Daniels could answer, the light of his lantern fell upon Black
Bart, hitherto half hidden by the deepening shadows of the night,
but standing now at the entrance of the shed. The cattleman's teeth
clicked together and he slapped his hand against his thigh in a reach
for the gun which was not there.

"Look behind you," he said to Calder. "A wolf!"

He made a grab for the marshal's gun, but the latter forestalled him.

"Go easy, partner," he said, grinning, "that's only the running
mate of the horse. He's not a wolf, at least not according to his
owner--and as for being wild--look at that!"

Bart had stalked calmly into the shed and now lay curled up exactly
beneath the feet of the stallion.

The two guests received a warmer welcome from Sam Daniels' wife when
they reached the house. Their son, Buck, had been expected home
for supper, but it was too late for them to delay the meal longer.
Accordingly they sat down at once and the dinner was nearly over when
Buck, having announced himself with a whoop as he rode up, entered,
banging the door loudly behind him. He greeted the strangers with a
careless wave of the hand and sat down at the table. His mother placed
food silently before him. No explanations of his tardiness were asked
and none were offered. The attitude of his father indicated clearly
that the boy represented the earning power of the family. He was a big
fellow with broad, thick wrists, and a straight black eye. When he had
eaten, he broke into breezy conversation, and especially of a vicious
mustang he had ridden on a bet the day before.

"Speakin' of hosses, Buck," said his father, "they's a black out in
the shed right now that'd make your eyes jest nacherally pop out'n
their sockets. No more'n fifteen hands, but a reg'lar picture. Must be
greased lightnin'."

"I've heard talk of