Chris sent the certified check, as soon as he could get it from the Santa Carlotta bank. A week later arrived a matchwood crate, containing the collie pup. Hibben himself motored across to Santa Carlotta to bring home his purchase. His homeward road led past the Dos Hermanos ranch. He saw the two partners washing up, on the steps, preparatory to supper. Beside them stood Treve; mildly tired and more than mildly hungry after a long day on the range. Chris turned in at the gate and hailed Fenno and Mack, pointing with pride to the crate. “Oh, you got her, hey?” said Joel, with much interest. “I’ll come out and have a look at the pup. Fraser Colt sure knows a collie. Pretty near as intimate as a vivisector is due to know the smell of brimstone. This dog will be a treat to see.” “I’ll save you the trouble of comin’ out here,” called back Hibben, lifting the crate and its light burden out of the truck. “I’ll fetch her up there, onto your stoop. I haven’t even had a chance to look at her yet. We’ll have an inspection bee. I want your opinion of her.” As he talked, he was carrying the crate along the path. Joel astounded Royce Mack by going out to meet him and by carrying one end of the box up the steps. Joel was not wont to lend an unasked hand. On the porch floor the crate was set. Hibben undid its crazy catch and opened its door. Slowly, uncertainly, a half-grown collie pup stepped out and stood before them. Hibben nodded appreciatively. He was no dog judge. But he could see that this was a really handsome puppy. Her coat was dense and long. It was a rich mahogany in hue; save for the snowy chest and paws and tailtip. An expert might have found the pretty head too broad and the ears too large and low for show-purposes or even for a show brood-matron’s career. But the newcomer was decidedly good-looking. She seemed not only intelligent but strong. Joel puckered his forehead. The unaccustomed smirk fled from his leathern face. The joke was turning out to be no joke at all. This strikingly handsome youngster appeared to be well worth seventy-five dollars. Mack was loud in his praise. But, like Fenno, he could not reconcile the pup’s excellent value with his own theories of Colt. “Yep,” pursued Hibben, “that’s Cirenhaven Nellie. A beauty, ain’t she? I’m sure your debtor for sickin’ me onto that Colt chap. I wish now I’d ordered a couple more of ’em.” Treve had watched with keen interest the opening of the crate. Now he came forward eagerly and touched noses with the bewildered pup. His plumed tail was wagging in friendly welcome. “He won’t bite Nellie, will he?” asked Hibben, a trifle anxiously. “No,” answered Royce Mack. “Man is about the only animal that mistreats the female of his race. Treve’s making friends with her. See, Joel? He’s making more friends with her than ever he’s made with any of the range collies. He acts like he knew she was helpless and that he had to protect her. He--”