That Gus Tripp was the bearer of news was easy to be seen. It fairly oozed from him, and he had a hard time to keep from shouting it as he approached. But he managed to contain himself, and when he came closer he asked: “You fellers busy just now?” “Well, not so very,” Teddy replied. “You look as though you had something to say. Go ahead, spill it!” “Sure I ain’t interruptin’?” “No, no! For Pete’s sake, get it out of yore system!” Nick chuckled. “You’ll bust in another minute. What’s the joke?” “There’s a medium down at the bunkhouse!” “What’s that?” “Huh? Say it again, an’ say it slow. What’s down at the bunkhouse?” “A medium!” “Medium what?” “Medium nothin’--just a medium! A guy what tells the future!” Light dawned slowly. “You mean a fortune-teller!” Roy exclaimed. “That it?” “Uh-huh. Say, he’s a pip! You ought to see him! Got a funny thing around his head. Rode up in a little buckboard. Talks some funny kind of language. He’s waitin’ down there now. Wish my wife was here, ’stead of in the city. She loves that stuff. She’s mostly Mexican, you know. Come on down!” “Where did you say he was?” “Waitin’ near the bunkhouse. Golly, I wish Pop was here--an’ Bug Eye! We could sure have some fun! Pop just pulled out as this gink came in.” “Wait till we put these broncs up, and we’ll be with you.” “All right; but hurry along.” The horses were tied to the hitching-rail, and the four punchers walked toward the bunkhouse, led by Gus. He was greatly delighted with the new experience of meeting a medium. Chances for entertainment are few and far between on Western ranches, and when it comes the buckers make the most of it. “There he is! See him?” Gus whispered in a thrilled tone, pointing. “Snakes, ain’t he a beaut?” And indeed he was a “beaut.” Seated on the ground near the door of the bunkhouse, legs curled up out of sight under him, was a strange figure. A bright blue fez crowned a dark, swarthy countenance. A long, flowing robe of green and yellow enveloped him. A vivid red sash was wound several times about his waist, giving him the appearance of a bag of potatoes--but a bag of such colors as was never seen in that part of the world. Close to him was the buckboard, a forlorn donkey standing dejectedly between the shafts. Catching sight of the four men, the medium arose smoothly, like a snake unwinding, and, spreading his hands wide, he bowed. “Come in, come in, gent’men,” he droned in a low monotone. “I wait for you.” “Come in where?” Nick asked blankly. “What matter? Into my fold. I see before me--” he paused. “What do you see before you?” Gus inquired curiously. “That I weesh to know,” and the medium smiled blandly. “You mus’ tell me, no?” “I don’t exactly get--” Nick began, when Teddy interrupted. “He wants to know who we are. This is Nick Looker, and this is Gus Tripp. The gentleman there is my brother, Roy Manley. I’m Teddy Manley. This is our ranch, the X Bar X. That do you?”