It was nightfall when the wagon that had brought them turned into a muddy drive and stopped before a bare looking house situated in a meadow, and surrounded by a number of vast barns and sheep-pens. Out of this house came a broad-shouldered, bronzed man who stood on the steps, waiting their approach. He wore trousers of sheepskin, a soiled flannel shirt, and round his neck--knotted in the back--was a red handkerchief. Donald noticed that into his belt of Mexican leather was tucked a revolver. He stared at the strangers inquiringly. Mr. Clark jumped out as soon as the wagon stopped, and extended his hand. "I do not know your name," he said pleasantly, "but mine is Clark. My son Donald and I have come from Boston to see the ranch." The man sprang forward. "I'm Tom Thornton, sir. What a pleasure to have a visit from you! Such an unexpected visit, too." He slapped Mr. Clark heartily on the shoulder and took Donald's hand in a tight grip. But though he talked loudly, and laughed a great deal while carrying in their luggage, for some reason Donald felt certain that really Tom Thornton was not glad to see them at all. [Illustration] Chapter II WHO SANDY WAS The next morning both Donald and his father were astir early. There was nothing to keep them within the great chilly house, and everything to lure them into the sunshine. The sky was without a cloud, and into its blueness stretched distant ranges of hazy mountains at whose feet nestled lower hills covered with faint green. Near at hand patches of meadow were toned to grayish white by grazing bands of sheep. On the still air came the flat, metallic note of herd-bells, and the bleating of numberless unseen flocks within the pens and barns. What a novel scene it was! The newcomers found their way to a sheltered corner where they could look out before them into the vastness. It was all so strange, so interesting! Somewhere in the ravine below they could catch the rushing music of a stream which wove itself in and out a maze of rolling hills and was lost at last in the shadows of the green valleys. As they stood silent and drank in the beauty about them, an angry voice broke the stillness. It came from the interior of the barn near which they were standing. "I tell you what, Tom Thornton, I'm with Sandy McCulloch. The sheep always were washed after shearing in Old Angus's day, and in Johnson's as well. That is how Crescent Ranch came to have the good name it now holds. There were no scabby sheep here to infect the rest of the herd." "What's that to you, Jack Owen? You are here to mind the boss, ain't you? What's the use of our working like beavers for ten days to dip the flock if we don't have to? Dipping is a dirty, tiresome job. You are not in for making work for yourself, are you?" "The flocks will be ruined!" "What do you care--they are not your sheep."