It was with delightful anticipations for the following day that old Nomad shuffled off to the corral. To Little Cayuse he recounted the various phases of the problem that confronted the pards, and expanded glowingly upon the warm work that lay ahead. “Things aire goin’ ter be red-hot on ther Brazos, kid,” declared Nomad. “How you like um, huh?” “Like um buenos,” replied the little Piute. “Pa-e-has-ka heap big chief. Where he go, me trail along. Cattle barons muy malo; Pa-e-has-ka get um on the run. Ugh!” CHAPTER VII. AT THE H-P RANCH. Early the following morning, Nate Dunbar closed and locked the door of the Star-A ranch house. The saddle horses were in front of the cabin, all in fine fettle after rest and forage. The scout’s Bear Paw, the Laramie man’s humorously named Beeswax, the old trapper’s Hide-rack, the Little Piute’s pinto Navi, Dunbar’s Buckskin, and the circuit-rider’s roan called George--these were all in readiness and champing the bit to get away. An hour’s ride down the Brazos would bring the party within sight of the extensive ranch buildings belonging to the H-P outfit. At the place where Phelps had located his ranch headquarters, the Brazos described a wide bend. Bunk house, chuck shanty, corrals for the horse herds and owner’s house were all located on the tongue of land half circled by the river. From rising ground at a distance of a quarter of a mile the scout and his party looked down on the H-P headquarters. Cowboys were going and coming, and at a hitching-pole in front of the owner’s cabin a number of tethered bronchos could be seen. “Looks ter me,” remarked old Nomad, shading his eyes with his hand and staring steadily, “as though Phelps had visitors.” “He’ll have another visitor, Nick,” laughed the scout, “before he’s many minutes older.” “We’re goin’ ter hang out right hyar in ther scrub an’ watch fer trouble signs,” averred the trapper. “Ef we savvy thet ther baron is tryin’ ter put ther kybosh on ye, we’re goin’ ter turn loose an’ ride over ther hull H-P outfit.” “Well,” cautioned the scout, “don’t you make any move until you’re mighty sure I want you.” “Don’t worry about that, pard,” said Wild Bill reassuringly. “Perhaps,” spoke up the sky pilot, “I could be of help if I went with you. I am well known at the H-P ranch, and a good many of the cowboys are personal friends of mine.” “Are they so friendly toward you, friend Jordan,” asked the scout, “that they would take your part against Phelps?” “Why, no. That would be rather too much to expect of them.” “Then I don’t believe you could be of much help. Anyhow, I would rather not give Phelps a chance to think that I’m trying to hide behind a man of your cloth. Stay here with the rest, friend Jordan, and I’ll go down and see what I can find out.” “Good luck go with you,” murmured the sky pilot.