“You’re thirty miles from a railroad, and forty miles from a saloon,” said Ranse. Curly fell back weakly against the steps. “Since you are here,” continued the ranchman, “come along with me. We can’t turn you out on the prairie. A rabbit might tear you to pieces.” He conducted Curly to a large shed where the ranch vehicles were kept. There he spread out a canvas cot and brought blankets. “I don’t suppose you can sleep,” said Ranse, “since you’ve been pounding your ear for twenty-four hours. But you can camp here till morning. I’ll have Pedro fetch you up some grub.” “Sleep!” said Curly. “I can sleep a week. Say, sport, have you got a coffin nail on you?” Fifty miles had Ransom Truesdell driven that day. And yet this is what he did. Old “Kiowa” Truesdell sat in his great wicker chair reading by the light of an immense oil lamp. Ranse laid a bundle of newspapers fresh from town at his elbow. “Back, Ranse?” said the old man, looking up. “Son,” old “Kiowa” continued, “I’ve been thinking all day about a certain matter that we have talked about. I want you to tell me again. I’ve lived for you. I’ve fought wolves and Indians and worse white men to protect you. You never had any mother that you can remember. I’ve taught you to shoot straight, ride hard, and live clean. Later on I’ve worked to pile up dollars that’ll be yours. You’ll be a rich man, Ranse, when my chunk goes out. I’ve made you. I’ve licked you into shape like a leopard cat licks its cubs. You don’t belong to yourself —you’ve got to be a Truesdell first. Now, is there to be any more nonsense about this Curtis girl?” “I’ll tell you once more,” said Ranse, slowly. “As I am a Truesdell and as you are my father, I’ll never marry a Curtis.” “Good boy,” said old “Kiowa.” “You’d better go get some supper.” Ranse went to the kitchen at the rear of the house. Pedro, the Mexican cook, sprang up to bring the food he was keeping warm in the stove. “Just a cup of coffee, Pedro,” he said, and drank it standing. And then: “There’s a tramp on a cot in the wagon-shed. Take him something to eat. Better make it enough for two.” Ranse walked out toward the _jacals_. A boy came running. “Manuel, can you catch Vaminos, in the little pasture, for me?” “Why not, señor? I saw him near the _puerta_ but two hours past. He bears a drag-rope.” “Get him and saddle him as quick as you can.” “_Prontito, señor_.” Soon, mounted on Vaminos, Ranse leaned in the saddle, pressed with his knees, and galloped eastward past the store, where sat Sam trying his guitar in the moonlight. Vaminos shall have a word—Vaminos the good dun horse. The Mexicans, who have a hundred names for the colours of a horse, called him _gruyo_. He was a mouse-coloured, slate-coloured, flea-bitten roan-dun, if you can conceive it. Down his back from his mane to his tail went a line of black. He would live forever; and surveyors have not laid off as many miles in the world as he could travel in a day.