nd
thought he knew. So he collected a trail crew, brought some Oregon
cattle across, and built his home ranch of three-foot adobe walls with
portholes. I joined the trail crew; and somehow or another the
Honourable Timothy got permission to go along on his own hook.

The trail was a long one. We had thirst and heat and stampedes and
some Indian scares. But in the queer atmospheric conditions that
prevailed that summer, I never saw the desert more wonderful. It was
like waking to the glory of God to sit up at dawn and see the colours
change on the dry ranges.

At the home ranch, again, Tim managed to get permission to stay on. He
kept his own mount of horses, took care of them, hunted, and took part
in all the cow work. We lost some cattle from Indians, of course, but
it was too near the Reservation for them to do more than pick up a few
stray head on their way through. The troops were always after them
full jump, and so they never had time to round up the beef. But of
course we had to look out or we'd lose our hair, and many a cowboy has
won out to the home ranch in an almighty exciting race. This was nuts
for the Honourable Timothy Clare, much better than hunting silver-tips,
and he enjoyed it no limit.

Things went along that way for some time, until one evening as I was
turning out the horses a buckboard drew in, and from it descended Tony
Briggs and a dapper little fellow dressed all in black and with a plug
hat.

"Which I accounts for said hat reachin' the ranch, because it's Friday
and the boys not in town," Tony whispered to me.

As I happened to be the only man in sight, the stranger addressed me.

"I am looking," said he in a peculiar, sing-song manner I have since
learned to be English, "for the Honourable Timothy Clare. Is he here?"

"Oh, you're looking for him are you?" said I. "And who might you be?"

You see, I liked Tim, and I didn't intend to deliver him over into
trouble.

The man picked a pair of eye-glasses off his stomach where they dangled
at the end of a chain, perched them on his nose, and stared me over. I
must have looked uncompromising, for after a few seconds he abruptly
wrinkled his nose so that the glasses fell promptly to his stomach
again, felt his waistcoat pocket, and produced a card. I took it, and
read:

JEFFRIES CASE, Barrister.

"A lawyer!" said I suspiciously.

"My dear man," he rejoined with a slight impatience, "I am not here to
do your y