What the man would have answered did not appear, for just then somebody shouted, and a trail of smoke swept up above the rim of the prairie. It rose higher and whiter, something that flashed dazzlingly grew into shape beneath it, and there was a curious silence when the dusty cars rolled into the little station. It was followed by a murmur as an elderly man in broad white hat and plain store clothing, and a plump, blue-eyed young woman, came out upon the platform of a car. He wore a pair of spectacles and gazed about him in placid inquiry, until Grant stepped forward. Then he helped the young woman down, and held out a big, hard hand. "Mr. Grant?" he said. Grant nodded, and raised his hat to the girl. "Yes," he said. "Mr. Muller?" "Ja," said the other man. "Also der fraeulein Muller." There was a little ironical laughter from the crowd. "A Dutchman," said somebody, "from Chicago. They raise them there in the sausage machine. The hogs go in at one end, and they rake the Dutchmen out of the other." Muller looked round inquiringly, but apparently failed to discover the speaker. "Dot," he said, "is der chestnut. I him have heard before." There was good-humoured laughter--for even when it has an animus an American crowd is usually fair; and in the meanwhile five or six other men got down from a car. They were lean and brown, with somewhat grim faces, and were dressed in blue shirts and jean. "Well," said one of them, "we're Americans. Got any objections to us getting off here, boys?" Some of the men in store clothing nodded a greeting, but there were others in wide hats, and long boots with spurs, who jeered. "Brought your plough-cows along?" said one, and the taunt had its meaning, for it is usually only the indigent and incapable who plough with oxen. "No," said one of the newcomers. "We have horses back yonder. When we want mules or cowsteerers, I guess we'll find them here. You seem to have quite a few of them around." A man stepped forward, jingling his spurs, with his jacket of embroidered deerskin flung open to show, though this was as yet unusual, that he wore a bandolier. Rolling back one loose sleeve he displayed a brown arm with the letters "C. R." tattooed within a garter upon it. "See this. You've heard of that mark before?" he said. "Cash required!" said the newcomer, with a grin. "Well, I guess that's not astonishing. It would be a blame foolish man who gave you credit." "No, sir," said the stockrider. "It's Cedar Range, and there's twenty boys and more cattle than you could count in a long day carrying that brand. It will be a cold day when you and the rest of the Dakotas start kicking against that outfit."