Lark rode moodily up to the rim of the Basin and halted there, as was his habit, and gazed down upon meadow, field, small orchard and the chain of corrals, with the house and two or three cabins sitting back against the bold cliff that shut in the upper end of the river valley like a wall. Ages ago the river, then a glacial stream, no doubt, had gouged and dug at the hills until it had made a fair retreat just here along its bank; had shrunk as the climate changed and dried; left the valley a fertile place with seeds of trees and grasses and wild flowers imbedded in the soil. Birds had come there to nest, and in the spring the air was all vibrant with the sweet, rippling notes of the meadowlark and robin and the little wild canaries. Old Bill Larkin had ridden into the valley by chance and had liked it well enough to appropriate it and build in it his home. Meadowlark Basin he called it--having come in the spring. Later he brought cattle and horses, when the pioneers were just awaking to the fact that Montana was an ideal grazing country. Some called old Bill a rustler--said his cattle and horses were mostly stolen. But they did not say it to his face, for old Bill was also called a killer. At any rate he owned a certain whimsical sentiment, for he fashioned the crude outline of a bird (though in the state brand book it was called the Half-moon-open-A) and stamped it deep in the hides of every hoof of stock he called his own. Moreover, he held his own against brand-blotters and prospered. Now Lark stared glumly down into the Basin and wished his old dad was alive and able to take a hand in the fight he felt was coming. But old Bill lay deep in the grove of cottonwoods between the river and the house, and Lark glanced that way as he swung back into the road. Bud's horse--called the Walking Sorrel because of his gait--tilted his ears forward and picked up his feet with the springy, eager steps of a horse glad to be home after an absence. At the foot of the hill he broke into a gallop that Lark did not check until they reached the yard by the shed where the saddles were housed. Lark slipped out of the saddle and was untying the valise from behind the cantle when Bud strolled down to greet him. He glanced over his shoulder, then handed the valise to Bud, who judged the weight of it and grinned. "Got it, I see. You weren't held up then," he said. "I thought afterwards that you shouldn't have gone alone, but I see it was all right, after all." Lark jerked off the saddle and led the horse to a gate and turned him through without speaking. The two started for the house, walking side by side up the roadway. "Boys all here?" Lark spoke abruptly.