Jack Mason, a young man of twenty-one years, was intently watching a billiard game in progress at a fashionable club in New York City. It was a hot sultry day in June and he was wondering how people could enjoy knocking a bunch of balls around a table and getting all heated up. He had about decided to take a run in his motor when a messenger boy handed him a message. It was from his father bidding him to come at once to his office. His father was president of a bank in New York and independently rich. Mason thrust the message in his pocket, musing as he did so.

“I’m in for a call from Dad, he’s probably read about the scrape the bunch and I got into last week.”

Calling one of the club members aside he demanded: “Say, Smithy, how did the story of my automobile accident leak out in the papers?”

“Don’t know, Jack,” his friend replied; “you know as much about that as I do.”

“Thought I had that automobile affair hushed up,” grumbled Mason. “What gets me,” he continued, “is how my part in the club boxing match got in the papers. I just received a message from the old man and expect he has heard all about it.”

“This won’t be the first time you have been bawled out by the old man,” replied Smithy with a broad grin.

“No, but I expect something serious this time,” declared Mason gravely. “Damn those meddlesome reporters!” he burst out savagely. “You know, Smithy, I have been in worse scrapes before, but always managed to patch them up some way. Now, this story gets in the papers, and that prize fight—well, I suppose the quicker I get this matter settled with Dad, the sooner I will know my fate.” He finished, starting for his car.

“Wish you luck, old man,” called Smithy as Mason started his motor, “give my best regards to your father.” This his parting shot, but Mason was out of hearing and speeding to his father’s office in his favorite racing car.

Arriving at the bank he went immediately to the private office. His father was busy reading a paper on his desk, and Mason sank indolently into a chair and waited for him to speak. After a period of waiting he got impatient and remarked:

“Well, Dad, let’s hear the fireworks.”

“Huh,” snorted his father, “you took your time getting here.”

“I started for the bank shortly after receiving your message, Dad,” he answered quietly.

“What deviltry have you got into now?” the elder man demanded sternly, pointing to a newspaper on his desk. “Here’s an account of you in the paper of going into the ring at your club and fighting six rounds, a choice bit of scandal for the society column. Not being satisfied with that you had to take a party of chorus girls out joy-riding and have a smash-up.”

“There’s no use getting excited about it, Dad. I know how you and mother feel about this affair.”

“You’re a disgrace to the family,” thundered his father. “I was going to disinherit you, Sir, but I talked the matter over with your mother, and I am going to make you a proposition.”

Mason was all attention now, he remembered once before when his father threatened to cut him off.

“Well, let me hear the proposition, Dad,” he said, his face showing grave concern.

“You know, Jack,” his father continued, “I have done better by you than you deserve. You won’t work in the bank or try to make a man of yourself. I’m through paying out good money on you for gambling debts and to spend for drink. I’ll give you one more chance and if you fail to make good I wash my hands of you. Early this morning I got in touch with a friend of mine who owns a ranch in Nevada. You go out there and after one year come to me and show me you have made a man of yourself. Then I’ll start you in business.”

“I can’t see for the life of me, Dad, how my going out there will benefit me,” he declared soberly.

“Son, I know it is a rough life, but if you come through as you should it will make a man of you. You have a good college education, and you can come back East fitted to tackle any business enterprise.”

“Well, Dad, I’m game to try it,” agreed Mason after calm deliberation.

“Here’s your letter of introduction,” said his father, handing him a letter.

The younger man, glancing at the envelope, read:

Tom Walters

Bar X Ranch, Nevada.

Noting his son’s look of surprise he explained:

“The nearest town is called Trader’s Post, and it is about four hours’ ride on horseback. I got in touch with Tom at Trader’s Post by wire.”

“Whew,” whistled Mason, “I suppose I will have to make that trip on horseback. You know, Dad, I’m soft for that sort of thing, having had all my joy rides in a high powered car.”

“Very true,” admitted his father, “you have been living a life of ease and luxury, and your health is none too good. Now, I want you to get out of this rut. You will have a lot of hard work to do on the ranch, and the quicker you get used to it the better.”

“You’re right, Dad, but tell me more about this man Walters.”

“I knew him years ago,” his father began. “Tom made a deal in stocks here, married and took his wife to Nevada. He invested his money in land and a few cattle, and now owns one of the finest ranches in Nevada. I remember that they have a girl, but I can’t recall just how old she is; I should judge about sixteen or eighteen.”

“This promises to be interesting,” commented Mason. “Do they know I’m coming?”

The elder man smiled. “You don’t need to worry about that. I received a wire from Tom.

“I am sending two men with a shipment of cattle to the Post, and with orders to remain until your son arrives.’”

“Tom certainly showed speed,” said Mason, looking at his watch. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed, rising to his feet. “Four P. M. I must be going if I start in the morning as I have a lot of things to see to. Good-bye, Dad; see you at dinner.”

Hurrying from the office he started his car and drove rapidly home. Going at once to his mother’s room he told her how he had come to an agreement with his father.

“Yes, I know, Jack,” she said, “your father and I talked it over this morning. Perhaps it will be best for you, but it is hard to have our only boy leave us. Do be careful for my sake. Your sister has been in tears since I told her you are going away.”

“Don’t worry, mother. I’ll see Ethel and explain matters to her.”

In the summer garden he found his sister reading in a hammock.

“Oh, Jack,” she cried, “is it true you are going away?”

“Yes, sis, I leave in the morning.”

Ethel was two years younger than Jack and very fond of him.

“Listen, sis,” he said earnestly, “I want you to comfort mother while I am away, and I’ll make you a promise. After I have been on this ranch long enough to get the run of things I’ll see that you and mother pay me a visit. Won’t that be great?”

“Yes, I want to visit you,” she agreed, “but I will be so lonesome until you send for us.”

“Why, sis, you have your girl friends, and let’s see, who is that young fellow you have been going with quite steadily?” he asked, smiling down at her.

“Now, you are trying to tease me,” she answered, “that young fellow you speak of, his name is George Burk, and you know I don’t care for him.”

“Sis, you’re hard to suit, maybe you can find some one in the West to marry.”

“I don’t know, Jack, just now I’m not worrying about getting married. I hope you like it out there and make good. Mother told me that father wrote to the man who owns the ranch about your coming, and also wired him. Wish I were going with you now,” she added wistfully.

“Never mind, sis, it won’t be long before I’ll send for you and mother. Be a good girl now, and help me pack.”

Going into the house, they were soon busy packing and thinking of the future.

The next morning Mason bid his parents goodbye and started on his trip West.

After long and tiresome travel on hot and dusty trains Mason alighted at a small station on the Union & Pacific where he was to take the stage that met all trains for Trader’s Post. Walking around the small platform of the depot he spied a dilapidated stage and a scraggy looking pair of horses. The driver was busily engaged filling a black clay pipe while talking with the telegraph operator. “Starting soon?” queried Mason pleasantly. The driver turned and looking Mason over, drawled:

“Thought I was going back empty, train stopped to let off some mail, but I didn’t see you get off. Be you the man the Bar X boys are expecting?”

“Guess I am,” said Mason, smiling.

“The boys are at the Grand Hotel,” explained the driver. “Jump in, we’ll be there in about an hour.”

“It’s four miles to the Post,” he added.

It was seven A. M. and Mason was anxious to get started on the long ride to the ranch. The driver kept up a running fire of talk as the stage rattled over the rough road.

“Yep,” he was saying, “old man Walters sent two men with a shipment of cattle to the Post. They have been there two days now, and one of them is hitting up old John Barleycorn right hard.”

Having delivered this bit of news he started the team at a faster pace.

“What sort of men are they at the ranch?” queried Mason. “Does Walters allow them to drink?”

The driver shook his head.

“No, he don’t allow them to drink on the ranch, but the assistant foreman sent Scotty Campbell and Red Sullivan to meet you and Scotty had to celebrate, but a better pair of cow punchers never stepped in boots. Let me tell you one thing, young fellow.”

The driver leaned over confidentially.

“If those punchers take to you, you will have two good friends.”

They were now in sight of the town, and Mason looked it over with interest.

Trader’s Post boasted of one hotel and dance hall, a general store, and a few scattered houses. As they drew near the hotel they heard a succession of whoops that would have put an Indian to shame. Mason looked at the driver inquiringly.

“That’s Scotty,” he explained.

“Well, he’s got a good pair of lungs,” laughed Mason.

The driver tied his team and Mason followed him into the hotel. As they entered, two men at the bar turned and looked Mason over. One, a good-natured looking Irishman, seemed satisfied and asked: “Are you the man that’s going to Bar X ranch?”

“Yes,” he replied, offering his hand. “I’m Jack Mason.”

Red shook hands and roared:

“Scotty, shake hands with our new recruit.”

Scotty looked Mason over from head to foot.

“Glad to meet you, laddie,” he said slowly, as he lurched heavily against the bar. “Don’t mind me, I had to have a little fun, don’t come to the Post very often.”

Red was grinning from ear to ear.

“If you don’t get called down by Miss Josephine when we get back to the ranch, I’ll buy you the best horse on the range.”

Scotty turned and looked at Mason.

“Laddie, don’t pay any attention to Red, let’s all have a drink on me.”

“I’m not drinking, Scotty, but I’ll take a cigar with you.”

“Well, Jack, we start in half an hour,” announced Red. “I’ll strap your luggage on my horse and send the supply wagon after the rest of your stuff.”

Going out on the hotel porch, Mason watched the scene with interest.

Scotty was leading two tough and wiry looking horses. He appeared so unsteady on his feet that Red started to help him.

“Steady there!” he called out sharply.

Scotty stiffened and glared at him.

“Don’t think I’m all in,” he growled, frowning at his partner.

With a flying leap he was in the saddle and dashed up to Mason leading a spare horse.

“What kind of a horseman are you, laddie?” he asked.

“Well, I never took any medals for fancy riding,” he confessed.

Scotty grinned. “We have a nice little ride ahead of us,” he said, as he turned and watched Red coming up.

Mason mounted his horse and the party started. Scotty was leading and singing snatches of Scotch songs. Mason lapsed into a moody silence and Red looked at him curiously as they rode along. The Easterner was thinking of the girl Red had mentioned and wondered if she was the girl his father had spoken of. Turning to Red he asked:

“Who is this Miss Josephine you spoke to Scotty about?”

“That’s old man Walters’ girl,” answered Red, as he rode his mount closer to Mason’s horse.

“She’s the idol of the ranch,” he continued, “and the boys would fight for her at the drop of the hat. With the exception of one or two,” he added with an oath.

“How’s that?” queried Mason in surprise.

“Well,” grumbled Red, “there’s two cursed onery punchers on our range that I don’t trust no more then I would a rattlesnake.”

Mason glancing ahead, noticed that Scotty had pulled his horse in and was listening with jaws tightly set. “Red, why don’t Walters get rid of these men?” queried the Easterner, coming back to the subject.

“Oh, they are good men on the range, and the old man hates to let them go,” replied Red with a vicious look. “Ain’t I right, Scotty?”

“Good, hell,” the Scot snarled, “if I had my way I would have cleaned up for them long ago.”

“Well,” declared Red with a grin, “he’s got that out of his system. Scotty and those two punchers get along just like two strange bulldogs.”

Mason was getting decidedly interested. “What particular thing have you got against these men?” he asked.

The face of the cowboy took on a grim look.

“I have a suspicion they are running our cattle, and the foreman thinks so, too,” he explained, “but they are slick about it and we can’t get anything on them yet. Our foreman is sheriff of this county, and if he ever gets any evidence he will push them to the limit, for he is a bad man when he gets started. You see, Jack,” Red continued, “there’s a ranch up the valley from us run by a man named Ricker. His boundary line touches ours and these two men used to work for him. Ricker is as crooked as they make them and we think these two men are spotting our cattle for Ricker and helping him run them over the line.”

“It begins to look as if I am going to have an interesting time out here,” mused Mason to himself.

“Do you know, Red, I think I am going to like this life; that is, if I can get used to this rough riding,” he finished tersely, as he squirmed in the saddle.

Red laughed.

“You’ll soon get used to hard riding if you stick with us,” he said.

“Yes,” chimed in Scotty with a grin, “but don’t let that redhead try to show you how to do any trick riding.”

Sullivan had a shock of red hair, but he didn’t like to be reminded of the fact.

“Why you grinning idiot,” he said with withering sarcasm, “I can stop you on any stunt you want to try with a horse.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” flared Scotty; “there’s going to be games at the ranch next month, and if you can beat me on trick riding, you can pick out the best Stetson hat at the Post that money will buy.”

“That bet goes,” agreed Red, shaking hands with him.

Mason looked on with an amused smile as he listened to the two friends wrangle.

“Scotty thinks he’s the only thing that ever stepped in boots when it comes to riding a horse,” declared Red testily.

“I don’t see why those two men you speak of should have anything against Miss Josephine,” said Mason, breaking a long silence.

“I can explain that,” replied Red with a chuckle, “one of these men goes by the name of Tom Powers. He came from the East, and is well educated. He had the nerve to try to make love to her, and one day he became offensive. Then she turned him down cold and he got sore on her. The other cuss is a half-breed Mexican, and goes by the name of Pete Carlo. He went to work with Powers for the Bar X outfit.”

“The only thing Pete can do well is to throw the reata,” broke in Scotty.

“Yes, he’s a fiend at that stunt,” assented Red. “Buck Miller is the only man on the range that’s got a chance with Pete. They had a contest a short time ago, and Buck got an even break with him. I expect——”

Red broke off suddenly and stared hard to the right. Mason following his gaze saw a girl on horseback. She was too far off for him to make out her features, but he could see that she sat her horse with perfect ease, and was riding at a moderate pace.

Scotty saw her at the same instant, and pulled his horse sharply to the right as he whistled shrilly to her. The girl looked around and raised her hand in recognition, then bending low in the saddle she urged her horse at a breakneck pace.

“Miss Josephine herself,” exclaimed Red with a broad grin. “She’s spotted us and wants to beat us in.”

Scotty had accepted the challenge and the race was on. Soon both riders were lost to vision in a cloud of dust.

“It’s two miles from here to the ranch, and Scotty ain’t got a chance to overtake her,” Red said at last. Mason heaved a sigh of relief when Red soon after pointed out the ranch to him. It was a large roomy building with a wide porch and immense cottonwood trees for shade. Mason dismounted and followed Red who was leading his horse to the corral.