THE following days were busy ones on San Antonio Rancho. Dick Willoughby was constantly in the saddle, looking after his subordinates, watching the line fences, and generally keeping track of the vast herds. Lieutenant Munson was becoming acclimated. He not only accompanied Willoughby on many of his rides, but had also paid several visits to La Siesta, and one afternoon in particular had enjoyed immensely a successful trout fishing expedition with the young ladies along the mountain stream that flowed through the property. One morning there was great excitement at San Antonio headquarters. Ben Thurston returned from a visit he had been paying to Los Angeles, and with him floated in a circumstantial story that the rancho had been really sold. As usual, he was attended by the plain-clothes detective whom he retained as bodyguard. Leach Sharkey was a big, hulking fellow, more than six feet in height, with a tousled shock of reddish hair, a stubby red mustache, and teeth that showed even when his face was in repose. Bulging hip pockets indicated the brace of heavy revolvers which he invariably carried. Within an hour of Mr. Thurston’s coming, Dick Willoughby, as foreman, was summoned to an interview at the ranch house. The owner received him alone in his office. Ben Thurston was a squat, solidly built man, and despite his life of idle luxury, carried his fifty odd years well. He was sullen and taciturn in manner, but brusque and imperious when he did choose to speak. Two features were markedly characteristic—the chin was weak and the eyes had the restless, alert look of one who constantly lived in an atmosphere of fear and suspicion. Thurston opened the conversation without any preliminaries. “Willoughby, I want an accurate count of all the cattle and horses on the ranch; and especially I require a fair idea as to the number of fatted beeves—those ready for the market, you understand.” “Very well,” replied Dick, “your orders shall be carried out as expeditiously as possible, but it will require a few days to complete the work.” “How many days?” “If I make use of all the force it may take a week—perhaps a little longer.” “All right, use all the help you can get. I must have these figures promptly. There is a Los Angeles syndicate who are after an option on the rancho. They are counting on buying me out—lock, stock and barrel.” Ben Thurston smiled, squinted his shifty eyes and blew his nose vigorously. “It always makes me laugh,” he added pompously, “to have these fellows come around this great principality of mine and try to buy me out.” Just then someone outside flitted past the window, and, quick as lightning, Thurston turned and exclaimed in a startled tone: “Who was that?” “That was Jack Rover,” replied Dick, “one of our cowboys.” “Oh,” and the frightened look in the eyes subsided.