Fraser Colt was a good deal of a scoundrel. He was a good deal of a brute. But his worst foe never doubted his queer power of reading human nature. Especially, could he read crookedness in the face of his fellow-man. He had an unerring eye for that quality--long possession of it having made him expert. So now he was reading Chang as though the Celestial’s usually inscrutable visage had been a printed page. Colt’s alert brain was working fast. He had come hither prepared for a scene of possible violence; perhaps for a long legal delay to follow it. And now appeared the chance for a short cut out of all that. If he could secure the dog without giving Treve’s owners a chance to protest, then so much the better. Back at home he could register the collie under another name. If, in future, Joel should chance to recognize Treve at some show, there would be no redress for the rancher. The dog was Colt’s. Chang was to be the means to this easy end. As the Chinaman still wiggled nervously from one felt-slippered foot to the other, under the silent appraisal of Colt’s eyes, the fat man drew forth a lump of bills; and began to riffle them. Chang’s eyes beamed admiration on the handful of money. “Listen, Chink!” said Colt, at last. “There’s a collie dog lives here. He’s mine. And I want him. Get that?” “Tleve?” quavered Chang, wonderingly. “Yep. Treve. That’s his name in the catalog. It wasn’t his name when I had him. And it won’t be when I get him back. He--” “You want--you want take Tleve away--to take him away, so he not be heah no longeh, at all?” demanded Chang, dizzy with the speed wherewith his prayer-papers were paying double dividends. “That’s it,” assented Colt. “And you’re the man to help me. It’s worth just--just fifty dollars to me to get that cur, without any fuss being made. To get him, quiet, and get him _away_, quiet. Want to earn that fifty, Chink? Nobody’ll ever know.” Now, Chang was a man of much finesse. But this delirious prospect of having his prayer answered and of getting fifty whole dollars, to boot, drove him for once to simple directness. “Yes-s-s,” he simmered, ecstatically; his claw-hand outstretched for the money. Into his moist palm, Fraser Colt laid a ten-dollar bill. The rest of the roll he pocketed. “You get the other forty when I get my dog,” said he. “Where is he, now? In the shack?” “Nope. He out with Mist’ Loyce Mack, Tleve is,” replied Chang. “Not back till sup’ time. At lanch house allee night, though,” he added, consolingly. “Good!” resumed Colt. “Now, let’s you and me go into executive session. This thing ought to be easy to fix up. Do you get a chance at the dog, alone, any time;--when the others aren’t likely to horn in?” At supper, that evening, Treve lay as usual on the floor beside Royce’s chair. He was more or less tired from a hard workday on the range, and he looked forward with joy to his own approaching supper.