The two men unsaddled their horses and turned them loose in the wire-fenced "pasture," the necessary noises of their movements sounding sharp and clear against the velvet hush of the night.

After a moment they walked stiffly past the sheds and cook shanty, past the men's bunk houses, and the tall windmill silhouetted against the sky, to the main building of the home ranch under its great cottonwoods.

There a light still burned, for this was the third day, and Buck Johnson awaited his foreman.
Jed Parker pushed in without ceremony.
"Here's your man, Buck," said he.
The stranger had stepped inside and carefully closed the door behind him.

The lamplight threw into relief the bold, free lines of his face, the details of his costume powdered thick with alkali, the shiny butts of the two guns in their open holsters tied at the bottom.

Equally it defined the resolute countenance of Buck Johnson turned up in inquiry.
The two men examined each other--and liked each other at once.
"How are you," greeted the cattleman.
"Good-evening," responded the stranger.
"Sit down," invited Buck Johnson.
The stranger perched gingerly on the edge of a chair, with an appearance less of embarrassment than of habitual alertness.
"You'll take the job ?" inquired the Senor.
"I haven't heard what it is," replied the stranger.
"Parker here-- ?" "Said you'd explain." "Very well," said Buck Johnson.