Pop Daggett's jaw sagged, betraying a cavernous expanse of sparsely-toothed gums. "Joe Bloss!" he ejaculated. "My land! I hope you ain't traveled far fur that. If so, yuh sure got yore trouble for yore pains. Why, man alive! Joe Bloss ain't been nigh the Shoe-Bar for close on to a year." Stratton's eyes narrowed. "A year?" he repeated curtly. "Where's he gone?" "You got me. I did hear he'd signed up with the Flying-V's over to New Mexico, but that might have been jest talk." He sniffed disapprovingly. "There ain't no doubt about it; the old Shoe-Bar's changed powerful these two years. I dunno what we're comin' to with wimmin buttin' into the cattle business." Buck stared at him in frank amazement. "Women?" he repeated. "What the dickens are you talking about, anyway?" "I sh'd think I was plain enough," retorted Pop Daggett with some asperity. "Mebbe female ranchers ain't no novelty to yuh, but this is the first time I ever run up ag'in one m'self, an' I ain't much in love with the idear." Stratton's teeth dug into his under lip, and one hand gripped the edge of the counter with a force that brought out a row of white dots across the knuckles. "You mean to tell me there's a--a--woman at the Shoe-Bar?" he asked incredulously. "At it?" snorted the old man. "Why, by cripes, she _owns_ it! Not only that, but folks say she's goin' to run the outfit herself like as if she was a man." He paused to spit accurately and with volume into the empty stove. "Her name's Thorne," he added curtly. "Mary Thorne." CHAPTER II CROOKED WORK Stratton suddenly turned his back and stared blankly through the open door. With the same unconscious instinct which had moved him to conceal his face from the old man, he fumbled in one pocket and drew forth papers and tobacco sack. It spoke well for his self-control that his fingers were almost steady as he deliberately fashioned a cigarette and thrust it between his lips. When he had lighted it and inhaled a puff or two, he turned slowly to Pop Daggett again. "You sure know how to shoot a surprise into a fellow, old-timer," he drawled. "A woman rancher, eh? That's going some around this country, I'll say. How long has she--er--owned the Shoe-Bar?" "Only since her pa died about four months back." Pop Daggett assumed an easier pose; his tone had softened to one of garrulous satisfaction at having a new listener to a tale he had worn threadbare. "It's consid'able of a story, but if yuh ain't pressed for time--" "Go to it," invited Buck, leaning back against the counter. "I've got all the time there is." Daggett's small, faded blue eyes regarded him curiously. "Did yuh ever meet up with this here Stratton?" he asked abruptly. "I--a--know what he looks like."