Randerson reached the Flying W ranchhouse late in the afternoon. He rode first to the bunkhouse, and seeing nobody there he made a round of the buildings. Still seeing no one, he urged Patches toward the house, halted him at the edge of the front porch and sat in the saddle, looking at the front door. He was about to call, when the door opened and Uncle Jepson came out. There was a broad grin on Uncle Jepson's face. "I cal'late you've got here," he said. "Looks mighty like it," returned the horseman. "You reckon my new boss is anywheres around?" "She's gone off ridin'," Uncle Jepson told him. "It's likely she'll be back shortly." "I reckon I'd better wait," said Randerson. He wheeled Patches. "There's plenty of sittin' room on the porch here," invited Uncle Jepson, indicating the chairs. "Thank you--reckon the bunkhouse will be my quarters." He spoke to the pony. Uncle Jepson spoke at the same instant, and Patches halted: "I cal'late you'd better wait here." "If you insist," said Randerson. He swung off and walked to the edge of the porch, grinning mildly at Uncle Jepson. The handclasp between them was warm, for Uncle Jepson had been strongly attracted to this son of the plains; and the twinkle in Randerson's eyes as his met Uncle Jepson's was not to be mistaken. "So Vickers has gone," said Randerson as he dropped into a chair. "He's a mighty fine man." "Willard wanted Chavis to have his job," whispered Uncle Jepson. "You don't say!" Randerson's eyes gleamed. "An' Miss Ruth didn't want him, I reckon." He caught Uncle Jepson's nod. "She's allowin' that she's goin' to be boss. But of course she would," he added. He stood up, for Aunt Martha had opened the door and was standing in it, looking at him. He removed his hat and bowed to her, his eyes gleaming with something near affection, for Aunt Martha had found a place in his heart. He stepped forward, took her hand, and escorted her to the largest and most comfortable of the rockers on the porch, and when she sat down she looked up at him and smiled. "I reckon you like it here?" he said gently to Aunt Martha. "I like it very much. But there are differences--after Poughkeepsie. One doesn't notice them so much at first." "I expect you find it sort of rough here," he said, looking at her. "They tell me that in the East folks live pretty close together--that there's conveniences. There ain't a heap of conveniences here." He pronounced the word slowly and laboriously. It was plain that he was trying to put on his best manners. "No--no conveniences," said Aunt Martha. "But it's a wonderful country, my boy--wonderful!" A pulse of something shot through him at the word, "boy." "I'm glad you like it," he said gravely.