"Economic waste hell!" exploded Welton. "I won't have that crew around here, and I won't have my employees confabbing with them. I don't care what you tell them, or how you fix it, but you keep them out of here. Understand? I hate the sight of one of those fellows worse than a poison-snake!" Merker glanced from Welton to the ranger and back again perplexed. "But--but--" he stammered. "I've known Ross Fletcher a long time. What can I say--" Welton cut in on him with contempt. "Well, you'd better say something, unless you want me to throw him off the place. This is no corner saloon for loafers." "I'll fix it," offered Bob, and without waiting for a reply, he walked over to where the mountaineer was leaning against the counter. "You're a Forest Ranger, I see," said Bob. "Yes," replied the man, straightening from his lounging position. "Well, from our bitter experiences as to the activities of a Forest Ranger we conclude that you must be very busy people--too busy to waste time on us." The man's face changed, but he evidently had not quite arrived at the drift of this. "I think you know what I mean," said Bob. A slow flush overspread the ranger's face. He looked the young man up and down deliberately. Bob moved the fraction of an inch nearer. "Meaning I'm not welcome here?" he demanded. "This place is for the transaction of business only. Can I have Merker get you anything?" Fletcher shot a glance half of bewilderment, half of anger, in the direction of the store-keeper. Then he nodded, not without a certain dignity, at Bob. "Thanks, no," he said, and walked out, his spurs jingling. "I guess he won't bother us again," said Bob, returning to Welton. The latter laughed, a trifle ashamed of his anger. "Those fellows give me the creeps," he said, "like cats do some people. Mossbacks don't know no better, but a Government grafter is a little more useless than a nigger on a sawlog." He went out. Bob turned to Merker. "Sorry for the row," he said briefly, for he liked the gentle, slow man. "But they're a bad lot. We've got to keep that crew at arm's length for our own protection." "Ross Fletcher is not that kind," protested Merker. "I've known him for years." "Well, he's got a nerve to come in here. I've seen him and his kind holding down too good a job next old Austin's bar." "Not Ross," protested Merker again. "He's a worker. He's just back now from the high mountains. Mr. Orde, if you've got a minute, sit down. I want to tell you about Ross." Willing to do what he could to soften Merker's natural feeling, Bob swung himself to the counter, and lit his pipe. "Ross Fletcher is a ranger because he loves it and believes in it," said Merker earnestly. "He knows things are going rotten now, but he hopes that by and by they'll go better. His district is in good shape. Why, let me tell you: last spring Ross was fighting fire all alone, and he went out for help and they docked him a day for being off the reserve!"