He went in and started the fire going, saying that he knew a man couldn’t drive out from Las Vegas without being mighty hungry when he arrived. He made fresh coffee, warmed over his pot of Mexican beans cooked with chili peppers, and opened a can of blackberry jam for the occasion. He apologized for his biscuits, which needed no apology whatever. He went down to the creek and brought up the butter, bewailing the fact that there was so little of it. But then, as he took pains to explain again, he had not expected to stay so long when he arrived. James Blaine Hawkins warmed perceptibly under the good-natured service he was getting. It was pleasant to have some one cook his supper for him after that long drive across the desert and it was satisfying to his vanity to be able to talk largely of his plans for running Johnnywater ranch at a profit. By the time he had mopped up his third helping of jam with his fourth hot biscuit, James Blaine Hawkins felt at peace with the world and with Gary Marshall, who was a fine young man and a good cook. “Didn’t make such a bad deal with that girl,” he boasted, leaning back against the dish cupboard and heaving a sigh of repletion. “Kinda had a white elephant on her hands, I guess. Had this place here and nobody to look after it. Yes, sir, time I’d talked with her awhile, she was ready to agree to every damned thing I said. Got my own terms, ab-so-lute-ly. Five years’ contract, and two thirds the increase of stock--cattle _and_ horses--two thirds of all the crops--and _found_!” “Get out!” exclaimed Gary, and grinned when he said it. “I suppose there _are_ such snaps in the world, but I never saw one. She agreed to that? _On paper?_” “On paper!” James Blaine Hawkins affirmed solemnly. He reached into his coat pocket (exactly as Gary had meant that he should). “Read it yourself,” he invited triumphantly. “Guess that spells Easy Street in less than five years. Don’t it?” “It’s a bird,” Gary assured him heartily. Then his face clouded. He sat with his head slightly bowed, drumming with his fingers on the table, in frowning meditation. “What’s wrong?” James Blaine Hawkins looked at him anxiously. “Anything wrong with that contract?” Gary started and with a noticeable effort pulled himself out of his mood. He laughed constrainedly. “The contract? Why, the contract’s all right--fine. I was just wondering----” He shook his shoulders impatiently. “But you’ll be all right, I guess. A man of your type----” He forced another laugh. “Of course it’s all right!” “You got something on your mind,” James Blaine Hawkins challenged uneasily. “What is it? You needn’t be afraid to tell _me_.” But Gary forced a laugh and declared that he had nothing at all on his mind. And by his very manner and tone James Blaine Hawkins knew that he was lying. The mottled cat hopped upon the doorstep, hesitated when she saw James Blaine Hawkins sitting there, then walked in demurely.