nch around these parts. Say," he went on, "the ol'
blind hoss has hunched it together pretty neat. I'll say that."

"Blind mule," put in Slum, vaulting to a seat on the bar.

"Mule?" questioned Shaky, with profound scorn. "Guess you ain't worked
around his layout, Slum. Skunk's my notion of him. I 'lows his
kickin's most like a mule's, but ther' ain't nothin' more to the
likeness. A mule's a hard-workin', decent cit'zen, which ain't off'n
said o' Julian Marbolt."

Shaky swung a leg over the back of a chair and sat down with his arms
folded across it, and his heavy bearded chin resting upon them.

"But you can't expect a blind man to be the essence of amiability,"
said Tresler. "Think of his condition."

"See here, young feller," jerked in Shaky, thrusting his chin-beard
forward aggressively. "Condition ain't to be figgered on when a man
keeps a great hulkin', bulldozin' swine of a foreman like Jake
Harnach. Say, them two, the blind skunk an' Jake, ken raise more hell
in five minutes around that ranch than a tribe o' neches on the
war-path. I built a barn on that place last summer, an' I guess I
know."

"Comforting for me," observed Tresler, with a laugh.

"Oh, you ain't like to git his rough edge," put in Carney, easily.

"Guess you're payin' a premium?" asked Shaky.

"I'm going to have three years' teaching."

"Three years o' Skitter Bend?" said Slum, quietly. "Guess you'll learn
a deal in three years o' Skitter Bend."

The little man chewed the end of a cigar Tresler had presented him
with, while his twinkling eyes exchanged meaning glances with his
comrades. Twirly laughed loudly and backed against the bar, stretching
out his arms on either side of him, and gripping its moulded edge with
his beefy hands.

"An' you're payin' fer that teachin'?" the butcher asked
incredulously, when his mirth had subsided.

"It seems the custom in this country to pay for everything you get,"
Tresler answered, a little shortly.

He was being laughed at more than he cared about. Still he checked his
annoyance. He wanted to know something about the local reputation of
the rancher he had apprenticed himself to, so he fired a direct
question in amongst his audience.

"Look here," he said sharply. "What's the game? What's the matter with
this Julian Marbolt?"

He looked round for an answer, which, for some minutes, did not seem
to be forthcoming.

Slum broke the silence at last. "He's blind," he said quietly.

"I know