"At least," invited Ross, "you'll come to dinner with me. Uncle Jake is frying ham and onions. Smell 'em? I got some onions and half a dozen apples over at Camp Sunday." His voice could not have been more eager had he been relating the finding of free gold. "Come on in, and have some." Weston's eyes slipped away from Ross's in a way which reminded the latter of Waymart's, and rested on the smoke from the cabin a quarter of a mile away. "Guess not, to-day. Thank you just the same. The boys are probably rustlin' grub this minute and they'll be expectin' me. See you again." Ross stood motionless, looking after him. Weston rode sitting straight, unlike the usual careless forward droop of the cow puncher. He was a well-built man, although his shoulders were rather narrow. But the only characteristic that Ross noticed was the grip of the left knee against the horse. For the strength of that grip he was responsible, but it was a responsibility which Lon did not seem to recognize. Suddenly the boy realized the newcomer's words. So Sandy and Waymart were expecting him, but had said nothing about it to Ross. And when Ross had told them about Lon Weston at the stage camp they had made no sign that they knew him. That was strange. He turned slowly toward the cabin, where Weimer was frying ham and onions and boiling coffee. Opening the cabin door he was met by a white gust of steam mingled with savory smoke. He propped the door open, and brought in an armful of wood. Weimer, in his shirt-sleeves, was bending his head over a little stove, which offered barely room for a small kettle and a skillet with a coffee-pot sandwiched in between. A sheet-iron oven stood on the floor, the top answering for a sideboard. When Weimer made biscuits and sour dough bread, the oven was placed on top of the stove. Ross threw his wood down on the hard dirt floor, and put a stick into the stove by way of the wide front door. The pine instantly blazed up, showing a wide crack which zigzagged across the side of the old stove. "Uncle Jake,"--Ross sat back on one heel, and looked up at his partner whose blinking eyes were in the gloom of the cabin unprotected now by goggles,--"Uncle Jake, a stranger has just come into Meadow Creek City on the Limited." Weimer chuckled. Before the advent of his youthful "pard" the old man--Ross always thought of him as old despite his black hair and great strength--had not laughed in months. "He stopped at the second station," pursued Ross. Weimer's face instantly darkened. "At the McKenzies'? One of dem consarned gang, he ist?" "That's what I want to know. It's Lon Weston, the fellow I told you I took care of at the stage camp." Weimer dumped ham and onions into an agateware basin, and set it on the table. "I don't know him, I don't. But he comes to der McKenzies, hein? Und after all dose days you spen' mit him!" Uncle Jack frowned heavily, and, sitting down, helped himself to boiled "spuds."