ad, shouted him a "Goot mornun"
from behind the fence of Los Muertos. Far off, toward the southwest,
in the bare expanse of the open fields, where a clump of eucalyptus
and cypress trees set a dark green note, a thin stream of smoke rose
straight into the air from the kitchen of Derrick's ranch houses.

But a mile or so beyond the Long Trestle he was surprised to see Magnus
Derrick's protege, the one-time shepherd, Vanamee, coming across Quien
Sabe, by a trail from one of Annixter's division houses. Without knowing
exactly why, Dyke received the impression that the young man had not
been in bed all of that night.

As the two approached each other, Dyke eyed the young fellow. He was
distrustful of Vanamee, having the country-bred suspicion of any person
he could not understand. Vanamee was, beyond doubt, no part of the life
of ranch and country town. He was an alien, a vagabond, a strange fellow
who came and went in mysterious fashion, making no friends, keeping
to himself. Why did he never wear a hat, why indulge in a fine,
black, pointed beard, when either a round beard or a mustache was the
invariable custom? Why did he not cut his hair? Above all, why did he
prowl about so much at night? As the two passed each other, Dyke, for
all his good-nature, was a little blunt in his greeting and looked back
at the ex-shepherd over his shoulder.

Dyke was right in his suspicion. Vanamee's bed had not been disturbed
for three nights. On the Monday of that week he had passed the entire
night in the garden of the Mission, overlooking the Seed ranch, in the
little valley. Tuesday evening had found him miles away from that
spot, in a deep arroyo in the Sierra foothills to the eastward, while
Wednesday he had slept in an abandoned 'dobe on Osterman's stock range,
twenty miles from his resting place of the night before.

The fact of the matter was that the old restlessness had once more
seized upon Vanamee. Something began tugging at him; the spur of some
unseen rider touched his flank. The instinct of the wanderer woke and
moved. For some time now he had been a part of the Los Muertos staff. On
Quien Sabe, as on the other ranches, the slack season was at hand. While
waiting for the wheat to come up no one was doing much of anything.
Vanamee had come over to Los Muertos and spent most of his days on
horseback, riding the range, rounding up and watching the cattle in the
fourth division of the ranch. But if the vagabond instinct now