Bill’s examination told him that the other was stocky, compactly built, with a pleasing face and a "good eye." His age was about thirty and the surface indications were very favorable. "Some surprised myself," he replied. "Ridin’ my way?" "Far’s th’ house," smiled the other. "Better join us. Couple of buffalo hunters dropped in awhile back." "They ’ll go a long way before they ’ll find buffalo," Bill responded, suspiciously. Glancing around he readily picked out the rectangular blot in the valley, though it was no easy feat. "Huntin’ or ranchin’?" he inquired in tones devoid of curiosity. "Ranchin’," smiled the other. "Hefty proposition, up here, I reckon. Th’ wolves ’ll walk in under yore nose. But I ain’t seen no Injuns." "You will," was the calm reply. "You ’ll see a couple, first; an’ then th’ whole cussed tribe. _They_ ain’t got no buffalo no more, neither." Buck glanced at him sharply and thought of the hunters, but he nodded. "Yes. But if that couple don’t go back?" he asked, referring to the Indians. "Then you ’ll save a little time." "Well, let ’em come. I ’m here to stay, one way or th’ other. But, anyhow, I ain’t got no border ruffians like they have over in th’ Panhandle. They ’re worse ’n Injuns." "Yes," agreed Bill. "Th’ war ain’t ended yet for some of them fellers. Ex-guerrillas, lots of ’em." When they reached the house the buffalo hunters were arguing about their next day’s ride and the elder, looking up, appealed to Bill. "Howd’y, Stranger. Ain’t come ’cross no buffaler signs, hev ye?" Bill smiled. "Bones an’ old chips. But th’ gray wolves was headin’ southwest." "What ’d I tell you?" triumphantly exclaimed the younger hunter. "Well, they ain’t much dif’rence, is they?" growled his companion. Bill missed nothing the hunters said or did and during the silent meal had a good chance to study their faces. When the pipes were going and the supper wreck cleaned away, Buck leaned against the wall and looked across the room at the latest arrival. "Don’t want a job, do you?" he asked. Bill shook his head slowly, wondering why the hunters had frowned at a job being offered on another man’s ranch. "I ’m headed north. But I ’ll give you a hand for a week if you need me," he offered. Buck smiled. "Much obliged, friend; but it ’ll leave me worse off than before. My other puncher ’ll be back in a few weeks with th’ supplies, but I need four men all year ’round. I got a thousand head to brand yet." The elder hunter looked up. "Drive ’em back to cow-country an’ sell ’em, or locate there," he suggested. Buck’s glance was as sharp as his reply, for he could n’t believe that the hunter had so soon forgotten what he had been told regarding the ownership of the cattle. "I don’t own ’em. This range is bought an’ paid for. I won’t lay down." "I done forgot they ain’t yourn," hastily replied the hunter, smiling to himself. Stolen cattle cannot go back.