A distinct path, in places almost a beaten road, connected the Box R and the Baker ranches. Along it a tall slim youth was riding a buckskin pony. He was clean-shaven and clean-shirted; but the shirt was of rough brown flannel. His leather trousers were creased and baggy at the knees. At his hip protruded the butt of a big revolver. Upon his head, seemingly a load in itself, was a broad sombrero; and surrounding it, beneath a band which at one time had been very gaudy but was now sobered by sun and rain, were stuck a score or more of matches. Despite the motion of the horse the youth was steadily smoking a stubby bull-dog pipe.
The time was morning, early morning; it was Winter, and the sun was still but a little way up in the sky. The day, although the month was December, was as warm as September. There had not even been a frost the previous night. Mother Nature was indulging in one of her many whims, and seemed smiling broadly at the incongruity.
Though the rider was out thus early, his departure had been by no means surreptitious. "I'm going over to Baker's, and may not be back before night," he had said at the breakfast table; and, impassive as usual, the older man had made no comment, but simply nodded and went about his work. Likewise there was no subterfuge when the youth arrived at his destination. "I came to see Florence," he announced to Scotty in the front yard; then, as he tied the pony, he added: "I spoke to Grannis, and he said he'd come over and help you. Do you know exactly when you'll want him?"
"Yes, day after to-morrow. This weather is too good to waste."
Ben turned toward the house. "All right. I'll see that he's over here bright and early."
The visitor found the interior of the Baker home looking like a corner in a storage warehouse. Florence, in a big checked apron reaching to her chin, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, was busily engaged in still further dismantling the once cosey parlor. Amidst the confusion, and apparently a part of it, Mrs. Baker wandered aimlessly about. The front door was wide open, letting in a stream of sunlight.
"Good-morning," said Ben, appearing in the doorway.
Mrs. Baker stopped long enough to nod, and Florence looked up from her work.
"Good-morning," she replied. A deliberate glance took in the new-comer's dress from head to foot, and lingered on the exposed revolver hilt. "Are you hunting Indians or bear?"
Ben Blair returned the look, even more deliberately.