In the midst of the repast the Captain said, suddenly, to the soft-footed Chinaman: "Ming! telephone down to Sam at the bunk-house and see if a hobo has just struck there, on his way to Amarillo. I told him he could get chuck and a sleep. Savvy?" "Jes so, Clapen," said Ming, softly, and shuffled out. It was evident that the tramp was on the Captain's mind. Pratt believed there must be some special reason for the old ranchman's worrying over marauders about the Bar-T. There was nothing to mar the friendliness of the dinner, however; not even when Ming slipped back and said in a low voice to the Captain: "Him Slilent Slam say no hobo come to blunk-house." They finished the meal leisurely; but on rising from the table Captain Rugley removed a heavy belt and holster from its hook behind the sideboard and slung it about his hips. Withdrawing the revolver, he spun the cylinder, made sure that it was filled, and slipped it back in the holster. All this was done quite as a matter of course. Frances made no comment, nor did she seem surprised. The three went back to the porch for a little while, although the night air was growing chill. Frances insisted that her father wear his coat, and they both sat out of the brighter radiance of the hanging lamp. She and her guest were talking about the forthcoming pageant at the Jackleg schoolhouse. Pratt had begun to feel enthusiastic over it as he learned more of the particulars. "People scarcely realize," said Frances, "that this Panhandle of ours has a history as ancient as St. Augustine, Florida. And _that_, you know, is called the oldest white settlement in these United States. "Long, long ago the Spanish explorers, with Indian guides whom they had enslaved, made a path through the swarming buffaloes up this way and called the country _Llano Estacada_, the staked plain. Our geographers misapplied the name 'Desert' to this vast country; but Nebraska, Kansas, and Oklahoma threw off that designation because it was proven that the rains fell more often than was reported." "What has built up those states," said Pratt, with a smile, "is farming, not cattle." The Captain grunted, for he had been listening to the conversation. "You ought to have seen those first hayseeds that tried to turn the ranges into posy beds and wheat fields," he chuckled. "They got all that was coming to them--believe me!" Frances laughed. "Daddy is still unconverted. He does not believe that the Panhandle is fit for anything but cattle. But he's going to let me have two hundred acres to plow and sow to wheat--he's promised." The Captain grunted again. "And last year we grew a hundred acres of milo maize and feterita. Helped on the winter feed--didn't it, Daddy?" and she laughed. "Got me there, Frances--got me there," admitted the old ranchman. "But I don't hope to live long enough to see the Bar-T raising more wheat than steers."