The buckboard swung close to the foot of the slope below him, and he eagerly scrutinized the occupants, his gaze lingering long on the girl on the seat beside the driver. She had looked for one flashing instant toward him, her attention drawn, no doubt, by the fringing green of the mesa, and he had caught a good glimpse of her face. It was just like the picture that Wes Vickers had surreptitiously brought to him one day some weeks before, after Harkness' death, when, in talking with Wes about the niece who was now the sole owner of the Flying W, and who was coming soon to manage her property, he had evinced curiosity. He had kept the picture, in spite of Vickers' remonstrances, and had studied it many times. He studied it now, after the passage of the buckboard, and was supremely pleased, for the likeness did not flatter her. Displeasure came into his eyes, though, when he thought of the driver. He was strangely disturbed over the thought that the driver had accompanied her from the East. He knew the driver was an Easterner, for no Westerner would ever rig himself out in such an absurd fashion--the cream-colored Stetson with the high pointed crown, extra wide brim with nickel spangles around the band, a white shirt with a broad turndown collar and a flowing colored tie--blue; a cartridge belt that fitted snugly around his waist, yellow with newness, so that the man on the mesa almost imagined he could hear it creak when its owner moved; corduroy riding-breeches, tight at the knees, and glistening boots with stiff tops. And--here the observer's eyes gleamed with derision--as the buckboard passed, he had caught a glimpse of a nickeled spur, with long rowels, on one of the ridiculous boots. He chuckled, his face wreathing in smiles as he urged the pony along the edge of the mesa, following the buckboard. He drew up presently at a point just above the buckboard, keeping discreetly behind some brush that he might not be seen, and gravely considered the vehicle and its occupants. The buckboard had stopped at the edge of the water, and the blacks were drinking. The girl was talking; the watcher heard her voice distinctly. "What a rough, grim country!" she said. "It is beautiful, though." "She's a knowin' girl," mused the rider, strangely pleased that she should like the world he lived in. For it was his world; he had been born here. "Don't you think so, Willard?" added the girl. The rider strained his ears for the answer. It came, grumblingly: "I suppose it's well enough--for the clodhoppers that live here." The girl laughed tolerantly; the rider on the mesa smiled. "I reckon I ain't goin' to like Willard a heap, Patches," he said to the pony; "he's runnin' down our country." He considered the girl and the driver gravely, and again spoke to the pony. "Do you reckon he's her brother, Patches? I expect it ain't possible--they're so different."