Presently it occurred to him that this might be a good chance of pursuing some of the investigations he had planned. Since noticing the disreputable condition of the fence the afternoon of his arrival, he had kept his eyes open, and a number of other little signs had confirmed his suspicion that the ranch had very much gone to seed. Of course this might be merely the result of careless, slovenly methods on the part of the foreman, and possibly it did not extend to anything really radical. It would need a much wider, more general inspection to justify a definite conclusion, and Stratton decided he might as well do some of it this afternoon. On the plea of seeking Lynch and the other men, he could ride almost anywhere without exciting suspicion, and he at once left the bunk-house to carry out his plan. Just outside the door he met Dr. Blanchard. "You made a good job of that dressing," remarked the older man briefly. He was tall with a slight stoop, bearded, a little slovenly in dress, but with clear, level eyes and a capable manner. "Where'd you learn how?" Stratton smiled. "Overseas. I was in the Transportation, and we had to know a little of everything, including first aid." "Hum," grunted the doctor. "Well, the kid's doing all right. I won't have to come over again unless fever develops." As they walked back to the hitching-rack, he gave Buck a few directions about the care of the invalid. There followed a slight pause. "You're new here," commented the doctor, untying his bridle-reins. "Just came yesterday," answered Stratton. "Friend of Lynch?" Buck's lips twitched. "Not exactly," he shrugged. "Miss Thorne hired me while he was in Paloma. I got a notion he was rather peevish about it. Reckon he prefers to pick his own hands." As the doctor swung into the saddle, his face momentarily lightened. "Don't let that worry you," he said, a faint little twinkle in his eyes. "It isn't good for anybody to have their own way all the time. Well, you know what to do about Bemis. If he shows any signs of fever, get hold of me right away." With a wave of his hand he rode off. Stratton's glance followed him curiously. Had he really been pleased to find that the new hand was not a friend of Tex Lynch, or was the idea merely a product of Buck's imagination? Still pondering, he turned abruptly to find Pedro regarding him intently from the kitchen door. As their glances met, the Mexican's lids drooped and his face smoothed swiftly into its usual indolent indifference; but he was not quite quick enough to hide entirely that first look of searching speculation mingled with not a little venom. Stratton's own expression was the perfection of studied self-control. He half smiled, and yawned in a realistically bored manner. "You sure you don't know where the bunch went?" he asked. "I'm getting dead sick of hanging around doing nothing." "They don' say," shrugged the Mexican. "I wash dishes an' don' see 'em go. Mebbe back soon."