around. See you again some time."

And he passed out of Forks.

"That feller's a decent--no, he's a gentleman," muttered Slum, staring
after the receding horseman. "Guess Skitter Bend's jest about the
place fer him. He'll bob out on top like a cork in a water bar'l. Say,
Jake Harnach'll git his feathers trimmed or I don't know a
'deuce-spot' from a 'straight flush.'"

Which sentiment spoke volumes for his opinion of the man who had just
left him.

CHAPTER II

MOSQUITO BEND

Forks died away in a shimmering haze of heat as Tresler rode out over
the hard prairie trail. Ten miles they had told him it was to Mosquito
Bend; a ten-mile continuation of the undulating plains he had now
grown accustomed to. He allowed his horse to take it leisurely. There
was no great hurry for an early arrival.

John Tresler had done what many an enterprising youngster from the New
England States has done since. At the age of twenty-five, finding
himself, after his university career at Harvard, with an excellent
training in all athletics, particularly boxing and wrestling and all
those games pertaining to the noble art of self-defense, but with only
a limited proficiency in matters relating to the earning of an
adequate living, he had decided to break new ground for himself on the
prairie-lands of the West. Stock-raising was his object, and, to this
end, he had sought out a ranch where he could thoroughly master the
craft before embarking on his own enterprise.

It was through official channels that he had heard of Mosquito Bend as
one of the largest ranches in the country at the time, and he had at
once entered into negotiations with the owner, Julian Marbolt, for a
period of instruction. His present journey was the result.

He thought a good deal as his horse ambled over that ten miles. He
weighed the stories he had heard from Shaky, and picked them
threadbare. He reduced his efforts to a few pointed conclusions.
Things were decidedly rough at Mosquito Bend. Probably the brutality
was a case of brute force pitted against brute force--he had taken
into consideration the well-known disposition of the Western
cowpuncher--and, as such, a matter of regretable necessity for the
governing of the place. Shaky had in some way fallen foul of the
master and foreman and had allowed personal feelings to warp his
judgment. And, lastly, taking his "greenness" into account, he had
piled up the agony simply from the native love of the "old