He broke off, flushing. He was a pleasant-faced youngster of not more than eighteen or nineteen, with a tangled mop of blonde hair and blue eyes, the pupils of which were curiously dilated. Stratton, whose extended arms had caught the boy just under the armpits, could feel his heart pounding furiously. "What's the matter, kid?" he asked briefly. "They were going to brand me--on the back," the boy muttered. Over the fellow's bare, muscular shoulders Buck's glance swept the trio who had pulled up just outside the bunk-house door. They seemed typical cow-punchers in dress and manner. Two of them were tall and well set up; the third was short and stocky and held a branding iron in one hand. Meeting Stratton's gaze, he laughed loudly. "By cripes, Bud! Yuh shore are easy. I thought yuh had more guts than to be scared of an iron that's hardly had the chill took off." He guffawed again, the other two joining in. A flush crept up into the boy's face, but his lips were firm now, and as he turned to face the others his eyes narrowed slightly. "If it's so cold as that mebbe you'd like me to try it on yuh," he suggested significantly. The short man haw-hawed again, but not quite so boisterously. Buck noticed that he held the branding iron carefully away from his leg. "I shore wouldn't hollar like you done 'fore I was touched," he retorted. "Wal, we got his goat good that time, didn't we, Butch? Better come in an' git yore shirt on 'fore the boss sees yuh half naked." He turned and disappeared into the bunk-house, followed by the two other punchers. Buck picked up his bundle and glanced at the boy. "Seems like you've got a right sociable, amusing bunch around here," he drawled. The youngster's lips parted impulsively, to close as swiftly over his white teeth. "Oh, they're a great lot of jokers," he returned non-committally, moving toward the door. "Coming in?" The room they entered was long and rather narrow, with built-in bunks occupying most of the wall space, while the usual assemblage of bridles, ropes, old hats, and garments, hanging from pegs, crowded the remainder. Opposite the door stood a rusty, pot-bellied stove which gave forth a heat that seemed rather superfluous on such a warm evening. The stocky fellow, having leaned his branding-iron against the adobe chimney, was occupied in closing the drafts. His two companions, both rolling cigarettes, stood beside him, while lounging at a rough table to the left of the door sat two other men, one of them idly shuffling a pack of dirty cards. As he entered, Stratton was conscious of the intent scrutiny of all five, and an easy, careless smile curved his lips. "Reckon this is the bunk-house, all right," he drawled. "The lady told me it was down this way. My name's Bob Green--Buck for short. I've just been hired to show you guys how to punch cows proper." There was a barely perceptible silence, broken by one of the men at the table.