Bob Hampton of Placer

The fly in the ointment of this long day's ride, the third party, whose

undesirable presence and personal knowledge of Mr. Moffat's past career

rather seriously interfered with the latter's flights of imagination,

was William McNeil, foreman of the "Bar V" ranch over on Sinsiniwa

Creek. McNeil was not much of a talker, having an impediment in his

speech, and being a trifle bashful in the presence of a lady. But he

caught the eye,--a slenderly built, reckless fellow, smoothly shaven,

with a strong chin and bright laughing eyes,--and as he lolled

carelessly back in his bearskin "chaps" and wide-brimmed sombrero,

occasionally throwing in some cool, insinuating comment regarding

Moffat's recitals, the latter experienced a strong inclination to heave

him overboard. The slight hardening of McNeil's eyes at such moments

had thus far served, however, as sufficient restraint, while the

unobservant Miss Spencer, unaware of the silent duel thus being

conducted in her very presence, divided her undisguised admiration,

playing havoc with the susceptible heart of each, and all unconsciously

laying the foundations for future trouble.

"Why, how truly remarkable!" she exclaimed, her cheeks glowing. "It's

all so different from the East; heroism seems to be in the very air of

this country, and your adventure was so very unusual. Don't you think

so, Mr. McNeil?"

The silent foreman hitched himself suddenly upright, his face unusually

solemn. "Why--eh--yes, miss--you might--eh--say that. He," with a

flip of his hand toward the other, "eh--reminds me--of--eh--an old

friend."

"Indeed? How extremely interesting!" eagerly scenting a new story.

"Please tell me who it was, Mr. McNeil."

"Oh--eh--knew him when I was a boy--eh--Munchausen."

Mr. Moffat drew in his head violently, with an exclamation nearly

profane, yet before he could speak Miss Spencer intervened.

"Munchausen! Why, Mr. McNeil, you surely do not intend to question the

truth of Mr. Moffat's narrative?"

The foreman's eyes twinkled humorously, but the lines of his face

remained calmly impassive. "My--eh--reference," he explained, gravely,

"was--eh--entirely to the--eh--local color, the--eh--expert touches."

"Oh!"

"Yes, miss. It's--eh--bad taste out here to--eh--doubt anybody's

word--eh--publicly."

Moffat stirred uneasily, his hand flung behind him, but McNeil was

gazing into the lady's fair face, apparently unconscious of any other

presence.

"But all this time you have not favored me with any of your own

adventures, Mr. McNeil. I am very sure you must have had hundreds out

on these wide plains."

The somewhat embarrassed foreman shook his head discouragingly.

"Oh, but I just know you have, only you are so modest about recounting

them. Now, that scar just under your hair--really it is not at all

unbecoming--surely that reveals a story. Was it caused by an Indian

arrow?"