His eastern course Nash pursued for a mile or more, and then swung sharp to the south. He was weary, like his horse, and he made no attempt to start a sudden burst of speed. He let the pony go on at the same tireless jog, clinging like a bulldog to the trail. About midday he sighted a small house cuddled into a hollow of the hills and made toward it. As he dismounted, a tow-headed, spindling boy lounged out of the doorway and stood with his hands shoved carelessly into his little overall pockets. "Hello, young feller." "'Lo, stranger." "What's the chance of bunking here for three or four hours and gettin' a good feed for the hoss?" "Never better. Gimme the hoss; I'll put him up in the shed. Feed him grain?" "No, you won't put him up. I'll tend to that." "Looks like a bad 'un." "That's it." "But a sure goer, eh?" "Yep." He led the pony to the shed, unsaddled him, and gave him a small feed. The horse first rolled on the dirt floor and then started methodically on his fodder. Having made sure that his mount was not "off his feed," Nash rolled a cigarette and strolled back to the house with the boy. "Where's the folks?" he asked. "Ma's sick, a little, and didn't get up to-day. Pa's down to the corral, cussing mad. But I can cook you up some chow." "All right son. I got a dollar here that'll buy you a pretty good store knife." The boy flushed so red that by contrast his straw coloured hair seemed positively white. "Maybe you want to pay me?" he suggested fiercely. "Maybe you think we're squatters that run a hotel?" Recognizing the true Western breed even in this small edition, Nash grinned. "Speakin' man to man, son, I didn't think that, but I thought I'd sort of feel my way." "Which I'll say you're lucky you didn't try to feel your way with pa; not the way he's feelin' now." In the shack of the house he placed the best chair for Nash and set about frying ham and making coffee. This with crackers, formed the meal. He watched Nash eat for a moment of solemn silence and then the foreman looked up to catch a meditative chuckle from the youngster. "Let me in on the joke, son." "Nothin'. I was just thinkin' of pa." "What's he sore about? Come out short at poker lately?" "No; he lost a hoss. Ha, ha, ha!" He explained: "He's lost his only standin' joke, and now the laugh's on pa!" Nash sipped his coffee and waited. On the mountain desert one does not draw out a narrator with questions. "There was a feller come along early this mornin' on a lame hoss," the story began. "He was a sure enough tenderfoot--leastways he looked it an' he talked it, but he wasn't." The familiarity of this description made Steve sit up a trifle straighter. "Was he a ringer?" "Maybe. I dunno. Pa meets him at the door and asks him in. What d'you think this feller comes back with?"