“Then he’ll get a chance of one,” Justin said. “Probably I can’t put him on specialized work. Did he mention what his trade is?” “No. He doesn’t look as though he’d had a trade. Maybe he was studying for some profession.” “Where is he?” “I don’t know. At the bunkhouse, maybe, or wandering about the place. Shall I send for him?” “No; I’d better meet him by chance and bring the thing up casually, don’t you think?” “Yes, that would be better,” she agreed. Having finished breakfast, Merrick went out to run down his man. He found presently a ragged young fellow sitting on the tongue of an old wagon puffing nervously at a cigarette. The engineer nodded a good-morning at him and stopped. “Not so hot as yesterday,” he said by way of introduction. “No,” assented the ragged one gloomily. “I’ve learned that Sheriff Daniels wants you to stay around a few days. I’m in charge of the Sweetwater Dam irrigation project. We need men. Want a job?” “If it’s one that suits me,” answered the tramp, eyeing Merrick ungraciously. He recognized the man’s strength and force. Every line of him, every glance, every inflection of the voice helped to bear out the impression of success he radiated. Clearly he was masterful and dominant, but the younger man did not like him less for that. “What can you do? What’s your line?” “I’m an engineer.” “What kind?” “I’ve done more bridge-building than anything else.” Merrick looked him over more carefully. “College man?” “Massachusetts Tech.” “My name’s Merrick.” The stranger hesitated a fraction of a second. “You can call me Jones.” “One of my men quit yesterday. Would you care to take a try at it? It’s cement work.” The man who had given his name as Jones was suffering the tortures of the damned. He wanted a shot in the arm to lift him out of himself, and he had thrown away his supply of the drug. Just now everything else in the world was unimportant beside this ravenous craving that filled his whole being. “I’d just as soon,” he said without enthusiasm. Ten minutes later he sat beside Merrick in the runabout. The car was taking the stiff grade of the road which climbed the Flat Tops to the hills. CHAPTER XIV ONE BAD HOMBRE MEETS ANOTHER Old Jake Prowers looked grimly down upon the Flat Tops from the Notch. He could see the full stretch of the mesa and below it one end of Paradise Valley. The windmill of the Diamond Bar K was shining in the sun, miles away, flinging out heliographic signals that conformed to no man-made code. “Wonder how Clint is this mo’ning,” he said in a high, squeaky voice that went congruously with the small, twisted figure and the wrinkled, leathery face. His _fidus Achates_, Don Black, shifted in the saddle to ease himself and rested his weight on one stirrup. He was a black-bearded, fierce-looking man in blue overalls, faded flannel shirt, and run-down-at-the-heel boots. “Didn’t know he was sick,” he said, chewing tobacco imperturbably.