The land surrounding the ranch-house was now almost as bare as the palm of a hand. Only one object relieved the impression of desolation, and that was a tree. It stood carefully fenced about in the drain from the big artesian well,--a vivid blot of green against the dun background. The first year after he came, Rankin had imported it,--a goodly sized soft maple; and in the pathway of constantly trickling water, it had grown and prospered. It was the only tree for miles and miles about, except the scrawny scrub-oaks, cotton-woods, and wild plums that flanked the infrequent creeks,--creeks which in Summer, save in deepest holes, reverted to mere dry runs. Beneath its shade Rankin had constructed a rough bench, and therein Ma Graham, day after day when her housework was finished, dozed and sewed and dozed again, apparently as forgetful as the cowboys upon the prairies that beyond her vision were great cities where countless thousands of human beings sweltered and struggled in desperate competition for daily bread. So much for the day. With the coming of dusk, a coolness like a benediction took the place of heat. The south wind gradually died down with the descending sun, until immediately following the setting it was absolutely still; now it sprang up anew, and wandered on until the break of day. Such an evening in late July found Rankin and Baker stretched out like boys upon a pile of hay in the latter's yard. The big man had just arrived; the old buckboard, with its mouse-colored mustangs, stood just as he had driven it up. Scotty knew him well enough to know that he had come for a purpose, and he awaited its revelation. Rankin slowly filled and lit his pipe, drew thereon until the glow from the bowl was reflected upon his face, and blew a great cloud of smoke out into the gathering dusk. "Baker," he asked at last, "what are we going to do for the education of these youngsters of ours? We can't let them grow up here like savages." Scotty rolled over on his side, and leaned his head comfortably in his hand. "I've thought of that," he answered, "and there seems to me only one of two things to do--either move into civilization, or import a pedagogue." A pause, and a whimsical inflection came into his voice. "Unfortunately, however, neither plan seems exactly practical at this time." Rankin smoked a minute in silence. "How would it do to move into civilization six months of the year--the Winter six?" he suggested. Scotty considered for a moment. "Do you mean that seriously?" he asked. "Yes." By the sense of feeling alone, the Englishman rolled a cigarette skilfully. "How about the stock here while we're gone," he said hesitatingly. "Do you suppose we'd find anything left when we came back in the Spring?"