Johnny pictured the valley, but hid his smile. "Oh, well; you can't blame the cows. They'll find th' best. Any ranches 'round here run by men?" "Shore; three of 'em. There's th' Bar H, an' th' Triangle, an' over west is th' Double X, but it's ranchhouse is so fur from here that it's a sort of outsider. It's th' biggest, th' Bar H is next, an' then comes th' Triangle. Th' Triangle don't hardly count, neither 'though it's close by." "What about th' SV you mentioned? An' what's yore name?" "My name's George. Th' SV has gone to th' dogs since it was sold. It ain't a ranch no more. Of course, it's got range, an' water, an' some cows, an' a couple of buildin's--but it ain't got no outfit. Old Arnold, his gal, an' his kid--all tenderfeet--are tryin' to run it." "But they've got to have punchers," objected Johnny. "They can't keep 'em, though I ain't sayin' why," replied George mysteriously. "Does th' Doc own th' Bar H?" asked Johnny. "Lord, no! It owns him--but, say; you'll have to excuse me. I got work to do. See you at supper. So long." Johnny left and rode back the way he had come that morning, lost in meditation. Reaching the rim of the valley he looked down over the rolling expanse of vivid green, here and there broken by shallow draws, with their brush and trees. He noticed an irregular circle of posts just south of him and close to the river. Experience told him what they meant, and he frowned. Here was a discordant note--that enclosure, small as it was, was a thing sinister, malevolent, to him almost possessing a personality. Turning from the quicksands he sat and gazed at the nest of rocks below him until Pepper, well trained though she was, became restless and thought it time to move. Stirring, he smiled and pressed a knee against her and as he rode away he shook his head. "Yes, girl, I'm still a-rollin'--an' I don't know where to." After supper he talked with George until they heard the creaking of wheels and harness. Looking up they saw four heavy horses slowly passing the window, followed by a huge, covered wagon with great, heavy wheels having four-inch tires. A grizzled, whiskered, weather-beaten patriarch handled the lines and talked to his horses as though they were children. "Now I got to make a new fire an' cook more grub," growled George, arising. "Why can't he get here in time for supper? He's allus late, goin' an' comin'." "Who is he, an' where's he from?" "Ol' Buffaler Wheatley from Highbank. He's goin' up to Juniper an' Sherman." "He come from Highbank today?" demanded Johnny, surprised. "Shore--an' he must 'a' come slow." "Slow? Forty miles with _that_ in a day, an' he come _slow_?" retorted Johnny. "He was lucky to get here before midnight. If you'd 'a' done what that old feller has today, you'd not think much of anybody as wanted you on hand at supper time." "Mebby yo're right," conceded George, dubiously, as he went into the kitchen.