The girl rode close to Mason, keeping up an easy conversation. He was surprised at her knowledge of all things in general. “Some day,” she was saying, “we will ride out to the boundary line and I will show you the Ricker ranch. It is a fine place and they have as much range as Daddy has. They have a girl working for them, too. She is Spanish and a beauty, that is, if you like a brunette.” Josephine was half laughing, and watching him out of the corner of her eyes. “I can tell better after I have seen her,” he replied, evasively. CHAPTER III MASON MEETS THE SHERIFF They had arrived at the bunk-house and Tex was talking to a man in a dusty khaki suit. The girl saw him and with a bound was out of the saddle and shaking hands with him. Mason knew that this man was Bud Anderson whom the girl had talked so much about. Tex had gone on ahead to the corral. Mason paused, and was slowly stroking his horse’s mane when Josephine suddenly turned and motioned to him. “Tex tells me the Ricker gang are acting suspicious,” he overheard her saying in a strained voice as he rode up. The man in the dusty khaki suit muttered something under his breath. Josephine was plainly ill at ease. “Mr. Mason, I want to make you acquainted with Bud Anderson, our sheriff,” she said in a low voice. Mason shook hands and winced. Anderson had a grip of steel. He was built on the lines of an athlete with powerful shoulders and an easy carriage that denoted quickness of action. He had sharp, piercing gray eyes that seemed to read one’s innermost thought. Standing close on to six feet, he was a magnificent specimen of manhood. “Mr. Mason, you have come at just the right time if you like excitement,” he said, looking the Easterner over sharply. “That’s my middle name,” returned Mason easily. Anderson nodded approval. “We are going to have some stormy times around these parts,” he declared. “I understand that Miss Josephine has told you about some of our bad neighbors, the Ricker outfit. “Well,” he went on, “I just discovered today that four more men joined forces with them, and I took the trouble to look up their names. They are the same bunch I rounded up in that shooting scrape five years ago,” he concluded. “Oh, I remember,” the girl cried in evident distress, “they wrote you from prison that they would get you when their term was up.” They had turned their horses into the corral and were walking slowly to the house. Anderson shut up like a clam and refused to say anything further on the subject. Mason figured it was on account of the nervousness of the girl. That night Anderson told Mason all the ins and outs of the affair. The trouble had occurred in a small town called Atwater, situated a few miles from Trader’s Post. Anderson having business to attend to there had stumbled on to the case shortly after it happened.