He was very much troubled, for, as foreman of the Bar-20, he had many responsibilities, and when things ceased to go aright he was expected not only to find the cause of the evil, but also the remedy.
That was what he was paid seventy dollars a month for and that was what he had been endeavoring to do.

As yet, however, he had only accomplished what the meanest cook's assistant had done.

He knew the cause of his present woes to be rustlers (cattle thieves), and that was all.
Riding down the wide, quiet street, he stopped and dismounted before the ever-open door of a ramshackle, one-story frame building.

Tossing the reins over the flattened ears of his vicious pinto he strode into the building and leaned easily against the bar, where he drummed with his fingers and sank into a reverie.
A shining bald pate, bowed over an open box, turned around and revealed a florid face, set with two small, twinkling blue eyes, as the proprietor, wiping his hands on his trousers, made his way to Buck's end of the bar.
"Mornin', Buck.

How's things ?" The foreman, lost in his reverie, continued to stare out the door.
"Mornin'," repeated the man behind the bar.