Rob promptly disappeared toward the corral and they heard him bawling, "Come on, all you workin' stiffs! She's set!" At last they were all gathered round the table, and Harry's reward had begun to come in the form of murmurs of approval from the men, and in more outspoken compliments from the women. "Why on earth didn't you send some of these things to the county fair last fall?" Sally Gardner demanded wonderingly as she tasted one dish after another. "Yes! You'd have some of them year-in and year-out blue-ribbon grabbers askin' you for receipts, all right," said Mrs. Robinson as she reached for a third helping of salad. "That's right," echoed Lance Fitch. "'Tain't every lady can teach school 'n' cook good, too. You could be makin' your sixty a month right along in summer, cookin' for the hay and harvester crews." "Sure!" exclaimed Pa Robinson. "What do ye mean, Holliday, by keepin' this sister of yours hid out in these here hills all summer?" "How do you expect me to ranch without her to ride the fences for me, I'd like to know?" "Better look out, or some fancy cow puncher'll ride off with her for keeps. Then whar'll you be?" "He kin do like Kit McCarty done," Lance said; "write to a mail-order house and tell 'em, they'd send him everything to fit up house with. Couldn't they send him a wife to keep his house along with the rest of it?" "Nothing stirring," declared Rob. "She might be like this company dinner set that spends most of the year sitting up in the closet, looking pretty and doing nothing else." "If he ain't as mean as a Scotchman," began Mrs. Robinson, when a voice from outside made them all jump. "What's that about Scotchmen?" it asked. "My mother was Scotch, and I'm thinkin' of goin' into sheep myself along with all the other canny Scotch laddies in Idyho, if the cowmen get any meaner." It was Chris Garnett. He had ridden up unheard and was peering at the company through the screen of branches. "Sorry to be late," he said apologetically, when he was seated and the women were filling his plate. "Some folks'll tell you, 'Them forest rangers don't have a thing to do but ride to keep from gettin' too fat, and go fishin'.' Fact is, there's a movin-picture mix-up on the reserve most of the time. Right now it's these scrubs. Can't keep 'em out. There's scrappin' every day along of the men that own pastur' in the reserve and the riders for the Idyho Cattle Comp'ny and the rustlers that's tryin' to pick up a few head between times." "It's a cinch somebody's rustling calves," Rob said. "We've lost two yearlings ourselves." "I'll rustle a few myself pretty soon," said Lance Fitch, scowling at the mound of potpie and mashed potatoes submerged in a lava stream of gravy that he was demolishing. "If these outside capitalists are going to shove their starved critters in and steal our range, I'll wise 'em some."