Lark was not among them, having made the excuse that he was tired from his trip to Glasgow; a thin excuse, for Lark could stay in the saddle as long as any man when the need arose. In reality Lark wanted to leave this horse-buying deal for Bud to handle alone. It was time, he thought, that the young man learned to assume some responsibility in a business way, and he was curious to see what sort of bargain Bud would make with the Frying Pan. So far Lark was secretly proud of his handsome young nephew whom he had cared for since he was a boy the size of Skookum, but for all that he was minded now to supplement Bud's schooling with a course of practical application of the lessons he had presumably learned from books. The Meadowlark needed to build up its horse herd, and it was Bud himself who had suggested that they see what the Frying Pan had to offer. Lark did not think much of the Frying Pan, and Kid Kern, the owner, he did not trust at all; but he told Bud to go ahead and see what he could do over there with fifteen hundred dollars, intimating that he ought to be able to buy a hundred head of mixed stock for that amount. Privately, Lark believed that the Frying Pan dealt mostly in "wet" stock--which is range parlance for stolen stock. A fresh brand is a "wet" brand. Stolen horses or cattle must be rebranded, the original brand hidden under another. That detail, combined with the fact that stolen stock is rushed by forced drives to distant localities, gave rise to the term, and that term was applied in undertones to Frying Pan horses. Lark wondered if Bud knew that. But wet stock is usually good stock, and cheap--for cash. So Lark did not say anything to Bud. If the kid wanted advice he'd probably ask for it. So Bud rode proudly at the head of the little cavalcade with fifteen hundred dollars in gold coin wrapped in his slicker and tied behind the cantle, and the cameo brooch pinning back his hat brim while a blue satin bow stolen laughingly from Marge sat perkily between the twitching ears of his horse--braided into the short hairs of the mane for safe-keeping. And Bud, the young devil, was not thinking of girls at all, but dreaming of those two black bronchos he meant to tame, and trying to think of names worthy their magnificent beauty. Stirrup to stirrup with him rode Frank Gelle, who sent a glance over his shoulder to see how close were the others when they slowed for the climb up through the pass. "What was Butch quizzing Skookum about last night, Bud, down by the little corral?" he broke ruthlessly into Bud's meditations. "Butch? I don't know, Jelly. I heard him say something about teaching the kid some birdcall or other." Bud, brought back to the present, bethought him that now was a good time to roll a smoke. He slipped the reins daintily between his third and little fingers and reached for tobacco sack and papers.