The outfit was working the foothills country. In nearly all the draws of this region nesters had settled, for one could grow corn and alfalfa in abundance, and some had laid out small peach orchards. They farmed in quarter-sections, and generally six or eight miles separated the farms. Some of them owned a few head of cattle, which grazed on the open range with the herds of the big companies. Consequently, when the Anvil wagon went on its roundup and began gathering cows and calves from valley and hill and brakes, it was joined at various points by nesters. They came to see that the calves belonging to any of their cows that might be in a roundup got the proper brand; and they received free chuck, and worked as members of the outfit. Late one afternoon a horseman ambled into camp and alighted leisurely close to the wagon. He left his mount standing almost on top of the pots whilst he secured a match from a drawer in the chuckbox. Now, it is contrary to camp tradition to bring one's horse within a certain radius. Fat Dave stuck his arms akimbo and surveyed the visitor with ill-concealed rage. "What for you don't hitch him to the coffee pot?" he sneered. "Perhaps you'd best put that ol' skate in my bed." "Pshaw!" said the other, laughing. "I clean forgot, Dave." He led the beast beyond the woodpile and returned to the fire. Dave was lifting some coals with a shovel, to put under a pot. "Going to be with us, Ben?" he inquired, considerably mollified. "I was sort of figuring on it." A long silence, while the cook spread live coals on top of the Dutch oven wherein the bread was baking. "Why, I didn't know you run any cattle, Ben." "A few ol' cows. They're my nephew's," said the other. He squatted on a pile of bedding and engaged the cook in conversation. A close observer might have remarked that Dave was wary in his replies--at least, wary for Dave, who was accustomed to call a spade a damned shovel. "How're the boys off for beddin'?" asked the visitor. "Right scarce. These nights get right cold now, I can tell you." "Somebody'll find room for me, don't you reckon?" Dave considered a moment. "You can sleep with me, Ben," he said finally. When the boys rode in to supper, tired and quiet from a punishing day, the cook seized an opportunity to speak to the boss. Lafe was adding up figures in a tally-book on the rim of a wagon wheel. "Say, Lafe," began the cook, "this here nester, Ben Walsh, that just come in--" "Well?" said Johnson. "What's he doing here? What does he want? That's what I'd like to know. Hey?" "He came to get his cattle, I reckon." "Cattle?" Dave snorted. "Him? Why, he never had even a dogie calf. No, sir; no, Lafe, that Walsh is a bad hombre. He's mean. Meaner'n poison. None of the Moffatts ain't no meaner." "The Moffatts?" Lafe repeated, pausing with his pencil in midair. "What's this nester got to do with Steve Moffatt or his kin?"