Buck and Red, too surprised to speak, smiled foolishly; Bill, also wordless, went upon his toes and tensed himself for that speed which had given to him hands never beaten on the draw. The stranger glanced at him, but saw nothing more than the level gaze that searched his squinting eyes for the soul back of them. The squint increased and he made a mental note concerning Bill Cassidy, which Bill Cassidy already had done regarding him. "I’m called Tom Jayne," drawled the stranger. "I ’m lookin’ for Peters." "Yes?" inquired Buck restlessly. "I ’m him." "Lewis sent me up to punch for you." "You plumb surprised us," replied Buck. "We don’t see nobody up here." "Reckon not," agreed Jayne smiling. "I ain’t been pestered a hull lot by th’ inhabitants on my way up. I reckon there ’s more _buffalo_ than men in this country." Buck nodded. "An’ blamed few buffalo, too. But Lewis did n’t say nothin’ about Lanky Smith, did he?" "Yes; Smith, he goes up in th’ Panhandle for to be a foreman. Lewis missed him. Th’ Panhandle must be purty nigh as crowded as this country, I reckon," he smiled. "Well," replied Buck, "anybody Lewis sends up is good enough for me. I ’m payin’ forty a month. Some day I ’ll pay more, if I ’m able to an’ it’s earned." Jayne nodded. "I ’m aimin’ to be here when th’ pay is raised; an’ I ’ll earn it." "Then shake han’s with Red an’ Bill, an’ come with me," said Buck. He led the way to the dugout, Bill and Red looking after him and the little newcomer. Red shook his head. "I dunno," he soliloquized, his eyes on the recruit’s guns. They were worn low on the thighs, and the lower ends of the holsters were securely tied to the trousers. They were low enough to have the butts even with the swinging hands, so that no time would have to be wasted in reaching for them; and the sheaths were tied down, so they would not cling to the guns and come up with them on the draw. Bill wore his guns the same way for the same reasons. Red glanced at his friend. "He ’s a queer li’l cuss, Bill," he suggested. Receiving no reply, he grinned and tried again. "I said as how he ’s a queer li’l cuss." Bill stirred. "Huh?" he muttered. Red snorted. "Why, I says he’s a drunk Injun mendin’ socks. What in blazes you reckon I ’d say!" "Oh, somethin’ like that; but; you should ’a’ said he’s a—a weasel. A cold-blooded, ferocious li’l rat that ’d kill for th’ joy of it," and Bill moved leisurely to rope his horse.