The stage came, and Bud turned to it relievedly. After that, here came Dave Truman on a deep-cheated roan. Bud knew him by his resemblance to the old man, who came shuffling bent-backed from the machine-shed as Dave passed. Pop beckoned, and Dave reined his horse that way and stopped at the shed door. The two talked for a minute and Dave rode on, passing Bud with a curt nod. Pop came over to where Bud stood leaning against the corral. “How are you feeling, dad?” Bud grinned absently. “Purty stiff an' sore, boy--my rheumatics is bad to-day.” Pop winked solemnly. “I spoke to Dave about you wantin' a job, and I guess likely Dave'll put you on. They's plenty to do--hayin' comin' on and all that.” He lowered his voice mysteriously, though there was no man save Bud within a hundred feet of him. “Don't ye go 'n talk horses--not yet. Don't let on like yore interested much. I'll tell yuh when to take 'em up.” The men came riding in from the hayfield, some in wagons, two astride harnessed work-horses, and one long-legged fellow in chaps on a mower, driving a sweaty team that still had life enough to jump sidewise when they spied Bud's pack by the corral. The stage driver sauntered up and spoke to the men. Bud went over and began to help unhitch the team from the mower, and the driver eyed him sharply while he grinned his greeting across the backs of the horses. “Pop says you're looking for work,” Dave Truman observed, coming up. “Well, if you ain't scared of it, I'll stake yuh to a hayfork after dinner. Where yuh from?” “Just right now, I'm from the Muleshoe. Bud Birnie's my name. I was telling dad why I quit.” “Tell me,” Dave directed briefly. “Pop ain't as reliable as he used to be. He'd never get it out straight.” “I quit,” said Bud, “by special request.” He pulled off his gloves carefully and held up his puffed knuckles. “I got that on Dirk Tracy.” The driver of the mower shot a quick, meaning glance at Dave, and laughed shortly. Dave grinned a little, but he did not ask what had been the trouble, as Bud had half expected him to do. Apparently Dave felt that he had received all the information he needed, for his next remark had to do with the heat. The day was a “weather breeder”, he declared, and he was glad to have another man to put at the hauling. An iron triangle beside the kitchen door clamored then, and Bud, looking quickly, saw the slim little woman with the big, troubled eyes striking the iron bar vigorously. Dave glanced at his watch and led the way to the house, the hay crew hurrying after him.