"'Forest Service,'" he read aloud, "'Department of Agriculture.' Well, so far as I can see, it ain't so terrifyin'. That last means raisin' things, like beets an' turnips an' so on, an' as for th' forest part, why, if he stays up in his 'fringe o' pines' I guess we ain't got no call to kick. Don't you worry, Tharon, about this new bird." "I'm a darned sight more worried about that other one, th' Arizona beauty which Courtrey's got in." "Forget th' gun man, Burt," said Billy, "this feller's a heap more interestin' to me, for I've got a hunch he's a poet. Now who on this footstool but a poet would come ridin' into Lost Valley with his badge o' beets an' his line o' talk about 'fringes o' pines' an' 'runnin' streams,' to quote Tharon?" "Even poets are human, you young limb," drawled Curly in his soft voice, "an' I'm sorry for him if he starts your 'interest,' so to speak. He'll need all his poetic vision t' survive." "I hope, Billy," said Tharon severely, and with lofty inconsistency, "that you'll remember your manners an' not start anything. Last's is in for trouble enough without any side issues." "True," said the boy instantly, "I'll promise to leave th' poet alone." Then the talk fell about the new well that had taken the place of the old Crystal and which was proving a huge success. "Can't draw her dry," said Bent Smith, "pulled all of three hours with Nick Bob an' Blue Pine yesterday an' never even riled her. "She's good as th' Gold Pool or th' Silver Hollow now." "You're some range man t' make any such a comparison," said Curly with conviction, "there ain't no artificial water-well extent that can hold a candle t' th' real livin' springs of a cattle country, when they're such bubblin', shinin' beauties as th' Springs of Last's." "You're right, Curly," said Tharon quietly from under the light, "there's nothin' like them. They must be th' blessin's of God, an' no mistake. They're th' stars at night, an' th' winds an' th' sunshine. They're th' lovers of th' horses, th' treasure of th' masters. I love my springs." "So do th' herds," put in Jack Masters. "They'll come fast at night now because they can smell th' water far off, an' it's gettin' pretty dry on th' range." "Yes," sighed Tharon, "it's summer now, an' Jim Last died in spring. A whole season gone." A whole season had gone, indeed, since that tragic night. Last's Holding had missed its master at each turn and point. A thousand times did Conford, the foreman, catch himself in the act of going to the big room to find him at his desk, a big, vital force, intent on the accounts of the ranch, a thousand times did he long for his keen insight. The _vaqueros_ missed him and his open hand. The very dogs at the steps missed him, and so did El Rey, waiting in his corral for the step that did not come, the strong hand on his bit. And how much his daughter missed him only the stars and the pale Virgin knew.