y-five, a man of
gigantic stature, with a face handsome in its form of features, but
disfigured by the harsh depression of the black brows over a pair of
hard, bold eyes. The lower half of his face was buried beneath a beard
so dense and black as to utterly disguise the mould of his mouth and
chin, thus leaving only the harsh tones of his voice as a clue to what
lay hidden there.

His dress was unremarkable but typical--moleskin trousers, a thin
cotton shirt, a gray tweed jacket, and a silk handkerchief about his
neck. He carried nothing in the shape of weapons, not even the usual
leather belt and sheath-knife. And in this he was apart from the
method of his country, where the use of firearms was the practice in
disputes.

On his part, Jake looked upon a well-built man five inches his
inferior in stature, but a man of good proportions, with a pair of
shoulders that suggested possibilities. But it was the steady look in
the steel-blue eyes which told him most. There was a simple directness
in them which told of a man unaccustomed to any browbeating; and, as
he gazed into them, he made a mental note that this newcomer must be
reduced to a proper humility at the earliest opportunity.

There was no pretense of courtesy between them. Neither offered to
shake hands. Jake blurted out his greeting in a vicious tone.

"Say, didn't you hear me callin'?" he asked sharply.

"I did." And the New Englander looked quietly into the eyes before
him, but without the least touch of bravado or of yielding.

"Then why in h---- didn't you come?"

"I was not to know you were calling me."

"Not to know?" retorted the other roughly. "I guess there aren't two
guys with pants like yours around the ranch. Now, see right here,
young feller, you'll just get a grip on the fact that I'm foreman of
this layout, and, as far as the 'hands' are concerned, I'm boss. When
I call, you come--and quick."

The man towered over Tresler in a bristling attitude. His hands were
aggressively thrust into his jacket pockets, and he emphasized his
final words with a scowl. And it was his attitude that roused Tresler;
the words were the words of an overweening bully, and might have been
laughed at, but the attitude said more, and no man likes to be
browbeaten. His anger leapt, and, though he held himself tightly, it
found expression in the biting emphasis of his reply.

"When I'm one of the 'hands,' yes," he said incisively.

Jake stared. Then a curious so