"You bet they must," agreed the Ranger with a burst of boyishness through his old-man air, "and the Lord pity the chap who has wife and kiddies in the balance--" "Do you think women tip the scale wrong?" "Of course not! They'd advise right--right--right; fight--fight--fight, just as you do; but the point is--can a fellow do right by them if he chucks his job in a losing fight?" The old-mannish air had returned. She followed the Ranger's glance over the edge of the Ridge into the Valley where the smoke-stacks of the distant Smelter City belched inky clouds against an evening sky. "Smelters need timber," Wayland waved his hand towards the pall of smoke over the River. "Smelters need coal. These men plan to take theirs free. Yet the law arrests a man for stealing a scuttle of coal or a cord of wood. One law for the rich, another for the poor; and who makes the law?" They could see the Valley below encircled by the Rim-Rocks round as a half-hoop, terra-cotta red in the sunset. Where the river leaped down a white fume, stood the ranch houses--the Missionary's and her Father's on the near side, the Senator's across the stream. Sounds of mouth organs and concertinas and a wheezing gramaphone came from the Valley where the Senator's cow-boys camped with drovers come up from Arizona. "Dick," she asked, "exactly what is the Senator's brand?" "Circle X." "A circle with an X in it?" The Ranger stubbornly permitted the suspicion of a smile. "So if the cattle from Arizona have only a circle, all a new owner has to do is put an X inside?" "And pay for the cattle," amplified Wayland. "Or a circle with a line, put another line across?" "And hand over the cash," added the Ranger. "Or a circle dot, just put an X on top of the dot?" "And fix the sheriff," explained the irrelevant [Transcriber's note: irreverent?] Ranger. "And the Senator has all the appointments to the Service out here?" "No--disappointments," corrected Wayland. They were both watching the grotesque antics of a squirrel negotiating the fresh tips of a young spruce. The squirrel sat up on his hind legs and chittered, whether at the Senator's brands or their heresy it would be hard to tell; but they both laughed. "Have you room on the Grazing Range for so many cattle?" "Not without crowding--" "You mean crowding the sheepmen, off," she said. "What is the use of talking?" demanded Wayland petulantly. "Neither you nor I dare open our mouths about it! Tell the sheriff; your ranch houses will be burnt over your ears some night! Everybody knows what has happened when a sheep herder has been killed in an accident, or hustled back to foreign parts; but speak of it--you had better have cut your tongue out! Fight it: you know what happened to my predecessors! One had a sudden transfer. Another got what is known as the bounce--you English people would call it the sack. The third got a job at three times bigger salary--down in the Smelter.