"Hired?" he repeated curtly. "Why, I thought Tex went to town." "Tex?" queried Stratton. "Oh, you mean the foreman. The lady did say something about that when she signed me up. Said she'd tell him about it when he came back." He was aware of a swift exchange of glances between several of the men. The stocky fellow suddenly abandoned his manipulation of the stove-dampers and came forward. "Oh, that's it?" he remarked with an amiable grin. "Tex most always does the hirin', yuh see. Glad to know yuh. My name's McCabe--Slim, they calls me, 'count uh my sylph-like figger. These here guys is Bill Joyce an' his side-kick, Butch Siegrist; likewise Flint Kreeger an' Doc Peters over to the table. Bud Jessup yuh already met." He chuckled, and Buck glancing toward the corner where the youngster was tucking in the tails of his flannel shirt, smiled slightly. "Got acquainted kinda sudden, didn't we?" he grinned. "Glad to meet you gents. Whereabouts is a bunk I can stake my claim to?" "This here's vacant," spoke up Bud Jessup quickly, indicating one next to his own. Buck stepped over and tossed his bundle into it. As he did so the raucous clanging of a bell sounded from the direction of the ranch-house, accompanied by a stentorian shout: "Grub-pile!" which galvanized the punchers into action. Stratton and the boy were the last to leave the room, and as he reached the door Buck noticed a tiny wisp of smoke curling up from the floor to one side of the stove. Looking closer he saw that it was caused by the branding-iron, one corner of which rested on the end of a board where the rough flooring came in contact with the square of hard-packed earth beneath the stove. Bud Jessup saw it, too, and without comment he stepped over and moved the iron to a safer position. Still without words, the two left the bunk-house. But as they headed for the kitchen Buck's eyes narrowed slightly and he flashed a momentary glance at his companion which was full of curiosity and thoughtful speculation. CHAPTER V TEX LYNCH Supper, which was served in the ranch-house kitchen by Pedro, the Mexican cook, was not enlivened by much conversation. The food was plentiful and of good quality, and the punchers addressed themselves to its consumption with the single-hearted purpose of hungry men whose appetites have been sharpened by a long day in the saddle. Now and then someone mumbled a request to "pass the sugar," or desired more steak or coffee from the shuffling Pedro; but for the most part the serious business of eating occupied them exclusively.