On Sunday afternoon Ruth, Masten, Aunt Martha, and Uncle Jepson were sitting on the front porch of the Flying W ranchhouse. Ruth was reading and thinking—thinking most of the time, the book lying open in her lap. Masten was smoking a cigar—one of the many that he had brought with him—and which he selfishly kept exclusively for his own use. Masten seemed to be doing a great deal of thinking, too, for he was silent during long periods, reclining easily in a big rocker, well-groomed and immaculate as usual, looking decidedly out of place in this country, where extravagant personal adornment was considered an indication of effeminacy.

Yet it was this immaculateness that had attracted Ruth to Masten in the first place when a year and a half before she had met him at a party in Poughkeepsie. Fresh from a big city near by, he had outshone the country gallants at the party as he had outshone the cowboys that Ruth had seen since coming to the Flying W. His courtship had been gallant, too; he had quite captivated her, and after their engagement—which had been a rather matter-of-fact affair—she had not found it possible to refuse him permission to accompany her to the West.

“Have you visited your neighbor yet, Ruth?” Masten inquired at last.

“Neighbor!” Ruth showed astonishment by letting her book close and losing her place. “Why, I didn’t know we had a neighbor nearer than the Diamond H!”

Masten’s lips curled. Her reference to the Diamond H recalled unpleasant memories.

“A nester,” he said, and then added after a pause—“and his daughter. Only two miles from here, across the river. There’s a trail, through a break in the canyon, leading to their ranch on the other side of the river. The man’s name is Catherson—Abe Catherson. Chavis tells me he was something of a bother to your uncle, because of his propensity to steal Flying W cattle. He’s an old savage.”

“And the daughter?” inquired Ruth, her eyes alight with interest.

“Half wild, bare-footed, ragged. She’s pretty, though.”

“How old is she, Willard?”

“A mere child. Fifteen, I should judge.”

“I shall visit them tomorrow,” declared Ruth.

“Sakes alive! Half wild? I should think she would be—living in that wilderness!” said Aunt Martha, looking up from her knitting, over the tops of her glasses.

“Everything is wild in this country,” said Masten, a slight sneer in his voice. “The people are repulsive, in dress, manner, and speech.” He delicately flecked some cigar ash from a coat sleeve.

Uncle Jepson wrinkled his nose belligerently. He sniffed in eloquent preparation for speech, but Aunt Martha averted the imminent clash by saying sharply:

“Jep, you hop in there and get that ball of yarn off the dining-room table!”

So potent is habit that Uncle Jepson started to obey automatically, Ruth interjected a word, speaking to Masten, and Uncle Jepson’s opportunity was lost.

Silence reigned again until Ruth, who was facing the Calamity Trail, suddenly exclaimed:

“Some one is coming!”

During the silence she had again been thinking of Rex Randerson, and seeing the figure on the trail she had leaped to the conclusion that it was he. Her face had flushed. Masten noticed it, for he looked narrowly at her and, though he said nothing, there was that in his eyes which told he had divined what was in her mind.

It was not Randerson, however, but Vickers, who was coming. They all recognized him when he came closer, and they watched him with that peculiar concertedness which seizes upon an expectant company, until he dismounted at the corral gates and came toward them.

Plainly there was something on Vickers’ mind, for he smiled mechanically as he stepped upon the porch and looked at them.

“Well, I’m back,” he said. He looked at Ruth. “There’s somethin’ I’d like to say to you. It’s business. If you’d rather hear it private—”

“I think there is nothing—” she began.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve got to leave here.”

Ruth’s face grew long. Uncle Jepson gagged on a mouthful of smoke. Aunt Martha ceased knitting. Masten alone seemed unmoved, but an elated gleam was in his eyes.

“Isn’t that a rather sudden decision, Mr. Vickers?” questioned Ruth after a silence.

“Well, mebbe it is, to you,” said Vickers, with some embarrassment. “But the fact is, I’ve been thinkin’ of goin’ for a long time—about a year to be exact. I was goin’ before your uncle died, but I kept holdin’ on because he wanted me to. You see, ma’am, I’ve got a mother back East. She’s been poorly for quite a while now, an’ has been wantin’ me to come. I’ve been puttin’ it off, but it’s got to the point where it can’t be put off any longer. I got a letter from her doctor the other day, an’ he says that she can’t last a heap longer. So—I’m goin’.”

“That’s too bad,” sympathized Ruth. “You ought to go, and go quickly.”

“I’m aimin’ to, ma’am. But I’ve got to tell you somethin’ before I go. Me an’ your uncle was pretty thick; he trusted me a heap.”

“Yes,” said Ruth; “he told me that he liked and trusted you.”

“Well, you’ll understand then. A couple of months before he cashed in, we was talkin’ of him goin’. He knowed it, ma’am. We was talkin’ about the ranch. He knowed I wanted to leave. ‘What’ll I do for a range boss when you’re gone?’ he asked me. ‘I won’t go till you ain’t here any more,’ I tells him. An’ he grinned. ‘I’m goin’ to leave the Flyin’ W to my niece, Ruth Harkness of Poughkeepsie,’ he says. ‘I’d like her to stay an’ run it—if she likes it here. You’ll be gone then, an’ who in Sam Hill will be range boss then?’ I told him I didn’t have no thoughts on the subject, an’ he continues: ‘Rex Randerson, Vickers—he’ll be range boss. Do you understand? If you was to pull your freight right now, Rex Randerson would be range boss as soon as I could get word over to him. An’ if you’ve got any say-so after I’m gone, an’ Ruth wants to keep the ranch, you tell her that—that Bill Harkness wants Rex Randerson to be range boss after Wes Vickers don’t want it any more.’ That’s what he said, ma’am; them’s his very words.”

Ruth looked at Masten. He was staring stonily out into the plains. Ruth’s cheeks reddened, for she felt that she knew his thoughts. But still, Randerson hadn’t really used him ill at the river, and besides, he had apologized, and it seemed to her that that should end the incident. Also, she still felt rather resentful toward Masten for his attitude toward Tom Chavis after she had complained. And also, lurking deep in her unsophisticated mind was a most feminine impulse to sting Masten to jealousy. She looked up to meet Vickers’ gaze, fixed curiously upon her.

“Could you recommend this man—Randerson?” she asked.

“Why, ma’am, he’s got the best reputation of any man in these parts!”

“But is he efficient?”

“Meanin’ does he know his business? Well, I reckon. He’s got the best head for range work of any man in the country! He’s square, ma’am. An’ there ain’t no man monkeyin’ with him. I’ve knowed him for five years, an’ I ain’t ever knowed him to do a crooked trick, exceptin’”—and here he scratched his head and grinned reminiscently—“when he gets the devil in him which he does occasionally, ma’am—an’ goes to jokin’, ma’am. But they’re mostly harmless jokes, ma’am; he’s never hurt nobody, bad. But he got a level head—a heap leveler than a lot of folks that—”

“I think Tom Chavis would make a good range boss, Ruth,” said Masten. He did not look at her, and his words were expressionless.

“Mister man,” said Vickers evenly, “what do you know about Tom Chavis?”

Masten looked quickly at Vickers, and as quickly looked away, his face slowly reddening.

“He’s foreman now, isn’t he?” he said. “It seems that Harkness trusted him that much.”

“There’s a first time for every man to go wrong, Mister,” said Vickers.

Masten’s voice was almost a sneer.

“Why don’t you tell Chavis that?”

“I’ve told him, Mister—to his face.” Vickers’ own face was growing dark with wrath.

“You were range boss after Harkness’ death,” persisted Masten. “Why didn’t you discharge Chavis?”

“I’m askin’ the new boss for permission to do it now,” declared Vickers. “It’ll be a good wind-up for my stay here.”

“We shall keep Chavis for the present,” said Ruth. “However,” she added firmly, “he shall not be range boss. I do not like him.”

Vickers grinned silent applause. And again Uncle Jepson had trouble with his pipe. Aunt Martha worked her knitting needles a little faster. Masten’s face paled, and the hand that held the cigar quickly clenched, so that smoking embers fell to the porch floor. Whatever his feelings, however, he retained his self-control.

“Of course, it is your affair, Ruth,” he said. “I beg your pardon for offering the suggestion.”

But he left them shortly afterward, lighting a fresh cigar and walking toward the bunkhouse, which was deserted, for Chavis and Pickett had gone to a distant part of the range.

Thus Masten did not see Vickers, when a little later he came out on the porch with his war-bag. He said good-bye to Aunt Martha and Uncle Jepson, and then he took Ruth’s hand and held it long.

“You’ll never go a heap wrong when you use your own judgment, girl,” he said. “I’m ridin’ over to the Diamond H to tell Randerson about his new job. Don’t make no mistake, girl. Rex Randerson is square. An’ if any trouble comes sneakin’ around you, take it to Rex; he’ll stick on the right side till hell freezes over.”