s of the help so given. So she was able to play
the part her courage and gentleness of spirit had assigned to her.

Presently a horseman came within sight, out of the northwest. It was
the direction of Jeff's ranch house. A moment of deliberate scrutiny
revealed the man's identity. It was Lal Hobhouse, second foreman of
the Obar, the man who, before the amalgamation, was Jeff's foreman.

Nan wondered what was bringing him in at this hour. Usually his visits
to their headquarters were made in the evening when the work of the day
was completed.

The man rode up and found Nan interestedly waiting to receive him.
There was a touch of anxiety in her tone as she greeted him.

"No trouble, Lal?" she demanded, as the man reined up his pony. The
direct manner of the girl was largely the result of her new
responsibilities.

Lal Hobhouse was a lean-faced specimen of sun-dried manhood. His
appearance suggested all wires and indifference to the nicenesses of
life. His long moustache drooped mournfully below his square chin.
And his fierce black eyes were full of a violent heat, rendered more
savage for its bottling up during his long ride.

"Trouble?" Then he exploded with a furious oath, and his volcanic
temper drowned the sunburn of his cheek under a living heat. "Them
rustlers. Them lousy bums," he cried almost choking. "That bunch o'
yearlings--Shorthorn yearlings, Miss. Thirty of 'em--picked right out
of the bush corrals where we'd got 'em for re-brandin'. Say, Bud--your
father, Miss," he corrected himself. "He ain't around?"

But Nan's interest was in the work of the rustlers. Not in his final
inquiry. Her pretty eyes were wide and hard with the anger his news
had inspired.

"The Shorthorn yearlings, Lal?" she demanded. "Our prize stock?"

"Sure, Miss. Them. That's them. God blister their filthy carkises!
May they stew in hell!"

He spat over his horse's shoulder as though to emphasize his furious
disgust But his forcefulness was displeasing.

"Guess you best off-saddle," Nan said coolly. "Father'll be along
right now. You'll need food. Say, what boys you got out there?" she
inquired as the man slipped out of the saddle and began to unfasten the
cinchas.

"Why, just the same four damn fools, an'--Sikkem."

"And they're following up the trail?"

"Sure." The man flung off the saddle and his horse mouched away.

"Psha!" he cried, turning his fierce eyes upon Nan. "What's the use
anywa