"Mexican, your foot!" she flared out at him, her trim little body stiffening perceptibly, her chin proudly lifted. "The Arriegas were pure-blooded Castilian, I'd have you understand. There's no mongrel about me." He drowned his satisfied chuckle with a draft of coffee. "I'm looking for a job," he said abruptly. "Happen to know of any of the cattle outfits around here that are short-handed?" "Men are scarce right now," she answered. "A good cattle-hand is as hard to locate as a dodo bird. You could get a job anywhere if you're worth your salt." "I was thinking," said Packard, "of moseying on to Ranch Number Ten. There's a man I used to know--Bill Royce, his name is. Foreman, isn't he?" "So you know Bill Royce?" countered Terry. "Well, that's something in your favor. He's a good scout." "Then he is still foreman?" "I didn't say so! No, he isn't. And I guess he'll never be foreman of that outfit or any other again. He's blind." Old Bill Royce blind! Here was a shock, and Packard sat back and stared at her speechlessly. Somehow this was incredible, unthinkable, nothing short. The old cattle-man who had been the hero of his boyhood, who had taught him to shoot and ride and swim, who had been so vital and so quick and keen of eye--blind? "What happened to him?" asked Packard presently. "Suppose you ask him," she retorted. "If you know him so well. He is still with the outfit. A man named Blenham is the foreman now. He's old Packard's right-hand bower, you know." "But Phil Packard is dead. And----" "And old 'Hell-Fire' Packard, Phil Packard's father, never will die. He's just naturally too low-down mean; the devil himself wouldn't have him." "Terry!" came the voice of the untidy man, meant to be remonstrative but chiefly noteworthy for a newly acquired thickness of utterance. Terry's eyes sparkled and a hot flush came into her cheeks. "Leave me alone, will you, pa?" she cried sharply. "I don't owe old Packard anything; no, nor Blenham either. You can walk easy all you like, but I'm blamed if I've got to. If you'd smash your cursed old bottle on their heads and take a brace we'd come alive yet." "Remember we have a guest with us," grumbled Temple from his place by the sitting-room fire. "Oh, shoot!" exclaimed the girl impatiently. Reaching out for a second sandwich she stabbed the kitchen-knife viciously into the roast. "I've a notion to pack up and clear out and let the cut-throat crowd clean you to the last copper and pick your bones into the bargain. When did you ever get anywhere by taking your hat off and side-stepping for a Packard? If you're so all-fired strong for remembering, why don't you try to remember how it feels to stand on two feet like a man instead of crawling on your belly like a worm!" "My dear!" expostulated Temple. Terry sniffed and paid no further attention to him.