Midway of the even, broad expanse between shack and gap stood an A-tent, very new, very white, and very generous in dimension. Like a giant mushroom, it had cropped forth during the night. About it stretched the untouched prairie, all purpling over with morning-glories.

The tent opened toward the river, and was flanked on one side by a pile of short pickets, their tops dipped the colour of the canvas, their bases nicely sharpened for the plotting out of ground. Near by, thrown flat, was a wide board sign, which read, in staring blue letters:

"AL BRADEN, REAL ESTATE."

It was well on toward noon before the tent showed life. Then there emerged from it a bulky man of middle age, who dusted at his high boots as he came, stretched, drawing his long coat snug, and settled an elaborate vest. He completed his costume by donning a black hat that was of wool, and floppy. Then, thumbs tucked in armholes, he strolled away toward the Lancasters'.

The section-boss and his daughters were lined up on the warm side of the lean-to, shading their faces from the sun. When the comer was so near that they could see he was strange to them, Lancaster gave a peremptory wag of the head, and the two girls disappeared around a corner. Their father stayed on watch, his jaws working nervously with the ever-present chew.

The burly man advanced upon the lean-to. "Mornin', mornin'," was his greeting. He made several swinging bows at Lancaster, and took him in shrewdly from eyes that were round and close-set.

The section-boss grunted.

"Lovely day," observed the other, with a bland smile. He changed his tack a little, as if he were going by.

Lancaster hobbled along with him. "Y-a-a-s," he drawled. "Right good. Some cool."

The stranger agreed by another series of swinging bows. "You got a nice place here—nice place," he continued affably. He loosened one thumb with a jerk.

"Nice 'nough."

The man halted in front of the shack and looked it over. "You're a Southern gentleman," said he, "by your talk."

"Ah am." Lancaster spoke with unfriendly rising inflection.

"Well, well." A hand was extended—a fat hand, where sparkled a diamond. "Say, now, this is lovely, lovely. I'm a Southerner myself, sir. Put it there!"

The section-boss hesitated. So far, Dakota had offered him no compatriot. He could scarce believe that one stood before him now. A second, then he gave a pleased grin. "Howdy," he said. "Hope y' goin' t' settle hereabout."

They shook heartily."Settle due east of you, sir," was the answer. "My name's Braden—Al Braden. I'm from Sioux Falls."

"Won't y' come in?"

"Tickled t' death!"

They entered the shack, Lancaster leading. Dallas and Marylyn glanced up in surprise from the fireplace, and arose hastily.

"M' gals," said the section-boss, motioning their visitor to a bench.

Braden took it, with more swinging bows, and a sweep of his floppy headgear. "Glad t' meet you," he smiled, "Miss-a-a-a-Miss——"

"Lancaster's they name," prompted the section-boss, all good nature.

"—Lancaster. Glad t' meet you both."

Dallas nodded, and drew her sister away to the wagon-seat in the corner.

"Jes' fr'm th' Falls, Ah think y' said," began their father, hunting his tobacco plug along the mantel.

"Yep."

"Um. Any—any news fr'm down thet way 'bout this part o' th' country?"

Braden fell to admiring his ring. "No, sir, no. Didn't hear nothin' particular."

The section-boss fidgeted. "S'pose y' know they's some talk 'bout a railroad comin' this way," he said carelessly.

"Don't go much on that talk. Ten years, twenty years—maybe. Too early yet."

Lancaster's face lengthened. He blinked in dismay.

"My idea," went on Braden, "is cows. Goin' t' be a lot of money in 'em, sure as you're alive. Hear Clark's made a good thing of his'n."

"Cows!" said Lancaster, in disgust. "Cows don' help a country; don' raise th' price o' lan'."

"Cows or no cows, your place here's worth a nice little sum," protested the other, condescendingly; "hunderd, anyway."

Lancaster stared. "Hunderd!" he cried. "You got th' grass staggers. Five hunderd."

Braden pursed his lips, his thumbs in his armholes again. "Three hunderd and fifty, say," he compromised. "I'd be willin' t' give you that."

A moment since, the section-boss had been downcast. Now, he guffawed. "Would y'?" he asked; "would y'?" There was a sage gleam in his eye.

"I would."

Lancaster sucked his teeth importantly. "Y' couldn' hev it a cent short o' seven hunderd an' fifty," he declared.

"You'll never get it, sir, never. Five hunderd's a spankin' figger."

"Bah!"

"Telling you what's what. There's thousands of acres around here just as good as your'n any day in the week. But you got this end of the ford. That makes a little difference."

"Makes 'bout fifteen hunderd dollars' diff'rence."

It was Braden's turn to laugh. "My friend, you'll hist to two thousand pretty soon," he warned; and arose. "Better take five hunderd and fifty when it's offered." He flung out his hands as if he were feeding hens.Lancaster got up with him, righteously angry. "Say, you ain't no South'ner," he cried. "Jes' a slick Yank. Ah c'n see through you like winda-pane!"

Braden laughed again, tapping the shoulder of the section-boss. "You ain't wise," he confided. "Farmin' out here with cows around means fences. But hang on if you want to. It's your land." He ended this with a jovial slap, and made for the door. From it, he could see the girls. He gave them a magnificent bow. "Mornin', mornin'," he said, and walked out.

Lancaster went back to the hearth, fairly weak with delight. Dallas and Marylyn joined him. "W'at d' y' think!" gurgled their father. "Say, he ain't got th' sense he ought 'a' been born with!"

"Don't like him," Dallas declared.

"Pig eyes," suggested Marylyn.

At that the section-boss calmed. "Wal," he said, "he's as good anyhow as slop-over soldiers."

Meanwhile, Braden was on his way to The Trooper's Delight, his face glum, his step quick, his arms cutting the air like propellers. When he lumbered into it, he creaked up to the plank bar and helped himself to a finger of whisky. Then he propped himself on an elbow and stood scowling into the rear of the room.

From the gaming-table sounded the raillery of a dozen men. Matthews was there, heels up, hat tipped back, a cigar set between his little teeth.

"What y' givin' us," cried one of his companions. "You're drunk, Nick—plumb drunk."

Braden listened, turning away. An advertisement of brandy hung from a shelf on the far side of the bar. He toyed with his goblet, his eyes fixed on the gaudy, fly-specked picture.

"I ain't drunk," Matthews declared. "I never been drunk. My stomick ain't big 'nough to hold the reequissit amount."

There was more laughter. The interpreter, well pleased with himself, surveyed his audience, pointing the cigar, now up, now down, so that its glowing end threatened to burn his shirt collar, or, tilting skyward, all but singed what there was of a tow eyebrow.

"And that ain't the best part of the story," he went on. "As I was sayin', not a darned pound of ice was left in Boston. Well, what d' y' think my old man does? He rents the fastest coast-steamer he can find. Then, he goes 'way up north in the Atlantic and lays-to with his weather eye open. Day or two, long comes a' iceberg big as a house. And by——, he hitches to it, and Boston gits ice!"

And now, like a ponderous bobcat descending upon its prey, Braden stole soft-footed across the room. "Nick!" he said. His jaws came together with the click of a steel trap.

Matthews lowered his heels. "Jumpin' buffalo!" he cried in amazement. "Al Braden! Where'd you come from?" He took the other's hand, at the same time pulling him slowly toward the door. Away from the crowd, they brought up.

"Well, you're a nice one!" was Braden's answer. "You're a nice one! Lettin' that Bend slip through your fingers!"

All the interpreter's cocksureness was gone. He threw the cigar into the sand-box under the stove, and looked on the verge of following it.

"Say, you talk of fleecin'," taunted Braden. "Why, you been skinned clean's a whistle! And by a' old fool duffer from Texas!"

"I was at Dodge when he come," snarled Matthews, finding his voice.

"What you go streakin' off to Dodge for, after the tip I give?"

"Well, no one here was talkin' railroad. So I, well, I——"

Braden addressed the ceiling, his fat hands outspread. "No one here was talkin' railroad, no one here was talkin' railroad?" he mimicked.

"—So I didn't put much stock in your letter."

"You didn't, eh?" Braden searched a coat-pocket, found a newspaper clipping and thrust it under Matthews' nose. "Well, read that."

"Read it yourself," said Matthews. "You know blamed well——"

Braden interrupted him by beginning. He lowered his voice, and intoned, giving the interpreter a glance designed to wilt him with the words that called for stress:

"'The proposed line will open up a country of rich grasses and ground and of unexcelled hunting. The Indians, while still troublesome beyond the Missouri, are rapidly being brought to see the advisability of remaining on the reservations, and little more annoyance on their part may be apprehended. Fort Brannon, he declares, is in the hands of several hundred brave fighting men and may be looked upon as a place of certain refuge in case of an outbreak. The soldiers are proving to be such a menace to those Indians who will not agree to reservation life, that whole bands of the more savage redskins are leaving for the Bad Lands and the rougher country farther west. No Indian war-parties have been seen east of the big river for some time. Already there is an increasing interest in land along the survey. And it is believed that when the last ties of the new line are laid there will be few unclaimed quarter-sections between the Big Sioux and the Missouri.'