They entered the dugout and looked around, Lanky sitting down to rest. His companion glanced at the mussed bunks and started a fire to get dinner for six. "Mebby they don’t ride in at noon," suggested the convalescent. "Then we ’ll eat it all," grinned the cook. "It’s comin’ to us by this time." The Weasel, riding toward the rear wall of the dugout, increased the pace when he saw the smoke pouring out of the chimney, but as he neared the hut he drew suddenly and listened, his expression of incredulity followed by one of amazement. A hearty laugh and some shouted words sent him spinning around and back to the chaparral. As soon as he dared he swung north to the creek and risked its quicksands to ride down its middle. Reaching the river he still kept to the water until he had crossed the ford and scrambled up the further bank to become lost in the windings of the canyon. Very soon after the Weasel’s departure Buck dismounted at the corral and stopped to listen. "Strangers," he muttered. "Glad they got th’ fire goin’, anyhow." Walking to the hut he entered and a yell met him at the instant recognition. "Hullo, Buck!" "Lanky!" he cried, leaping forward. "Easy!" cautioned the convalescent, evading the hand. "I ’ve been all shot up an’ I ain’t right yet." "That so! How ’d it happen?" "Shake han’s with Skinny Thompson, my fool nurse," laughed Lanky. "I ’m a fool, all right, helpin’ _him_," grinned Skinny, gripping the hand. "But when I picks him up down in th’ Li’l Wind River country I was a’ angel. Looked after him for two weeks down there, an’ put in another gettin’ up here. Served him right, too, for runnin’ away from me." "Little Wind River country!" exclaimed Buck. "Why, I thought you was a foreman in th’ Panhandle." "Foreman nothin’," replied Lanky. "I was shot up by a li’l runt of a rustler an’ left to die two hundred mile from nowhere. I was n’t expectin’ no gun-play." "He’s ridin’ up here," explained Skinny. "Meets three fellers an’ gets friendly. They learns his business, an’ drops him sudden when he’s mountin’. Butch Lynch did th’ shootin’. Butch got his name butcherin th’ law. He could n’t make a livin’ at it. Then he got chased out of New Mexico for bein’ mixed up in a free-love sect, an’ pulls for Chicago. He reckoned he owned th’ West, so he drifts down here again an’ turns rustler. I dunno why he plugs Lanky, less ’n he thinks Lanky knows him an’ might try to hand him over. I ’m honin’ for to meet Butch." Buck looked from one to the other in amazement, suspicion raging in his mind. "Why, I heard you went to th’ Panhandle!" he ejaculated. Skinny grinned: "A fine foreman he’d make, less ’n for a hawg ranch!" "Who told you that?" demanded Lanky, with sudden interest. "Th’ feller Lewis sent up in yore place." "What?" shouted both in one voice, and Lanky gave a terse description of Butch Lynch. "That him?"