In the first place he had done a man’s work. For the first time in recent years his body actually demanded food: plenty of it and soon, for he had missed his lunch; besides, he had that inner peace and satisfaction of a day’s work completed. Then its very preparation made it appetizing,—the slim, sure hands of the girl, her brown arms flashing, the fragrant wood smoke, the long, impressive vista of the Rockies behind the camp. After supper he helped her wash the camp dishes; then cut fir boughs for her bed that was to be situated nearly a quarter of a mile away, across the meadow. The idea of being afraid of him seemingly didn’t even occur to her. She would have slept out the same way had he been from any other class of men, and Hugh could understand how his predecessors had respected her heavy revolver. Then there was a quiet hour with his new-found friend, his pipe,—and the girl telling her story in the fire’s glow. “My father’s name is Crowson—Ezra Crowson,” she began in the direct mountain way. “And mine—out here we don’t bother with last names—is Alice Crowson. You don’t have to call me Miss, Mr. Gaylord——” “And by the same token,” he replied, “my first name is Hugh.” “Then Hugh——” “Then Alice——” And they laughed across the fire. It had become quite easy to laugh at simple, wholesome pleasantries. Yet there was no familiarity here. Alice had told the truth: last names take time; and time, in the West, is precious. Names were designations of people, rather than people the representatives of names. Names didn’t matter and people did. “Dan called me Alice too,” she went on, suddenly remembering to remind Hugh that he was in the same class, as far as privileges went, with his predecessors. “My father lives down at a place called Horse Creek—and unlike many sheepmen in the West, his whole capital is tied up in this one flock. He isn’t a big sheepman—only a little one. That is what makes it so important that we win. “He bought the stock from an old friend to whom he had loaned everything he had—and it was either take the sheep or lose everything. He wasn’t an experienced sheepman. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come here—where Landy Fargo and his gang control everything. You see, Hugh, they are cattlemen—managers—and they’re part owners, too—for a number of rich men in the East. For years and years they’ve had everything their own way in regard to the range.