The huge figure of Joe Harris, squaw-man, cattle-man, and general progressive-man, was prominent in the center of the group. He was by all odds the greatest and most feared man in that portion of the country. His judgment as well as his friendship was sought after by all the small ranchers about, and also, it was rumored, by a certain class of cattle owners commonly called rustlers. To be Joe Harris' friend meant safety, if nothing more; to be his enemy meant, sooner or later, a search for a new country, or utter ruination. He brought with him, years before from the north, a weird record, no tangible tale of which got about, but the mysterious rumor, combined with the man's striking personality, his huge form, bearded face, piercing blue eyes, and great voice, all combined to make people afraid of him. He was considered a dangerous man. At this date he possessed one thousand head of good cattle, a squaw, and fifteen strong, husky children, and, being a drinking man, possessed also an erratic disposition. He was very deferential to his Indian wife, a good woman, but he ruled his offspring with a rod of iron. His children feared him. Some of them possessed his nature to such a marked degree that they hated him more than they feared him, which is saying considerable. Even as they played about the group of men they watched him closely, as they had learned by instinct at their mother's breast. In the midst of loud talk from the assorted group, a tiny girl, the great man's favorite child, was sent out from the kitchen to tell them that supper was ready. The little thing pulled timidly at the large man's coat. He stooped and picked her up in his arms, leading the hungry throng into the house, where a rude supper was eaten in almost absolute silence. Occasionally a pig would venture into the room, to be immediately kicked out by the man who sat nearest the door. Then the children that played about the house would chase the offending animal with sticks and shrill cries. In a room adjoining this one a girl sat alone in dejected attitude, her face buried between two very brown hands. As the men tramped into the house she rose from the trunk upon which she had been sitting and crossed to the farther side of the room. There, with difficulty, she forced up a small dingy window looking out upon the mountains at the back of the ranch--a clear view, unobstructed by scurrying dogs, pigs, or children. She leaned far out, drawing in deep, sweet breaths, and wondering if she would follow the impulse to climb out and run to the top of the nearest hill. She thought not, then fell again to wondering how she should ever accustom herself to this place, these new surroundings. She heard the men tramp out of the house, followed soon by a timid rap upon her door, then moved quickly across the room, an odd contrast to her rude surroundings. "You can have supper now," said a tall girl in a timid voice. "The men are through. We ain't got much, Miss Hathaway."