gan's Irish
face, his squat figure and powerful head were a combination suggesting
tremendous energy and determination, rather than any great mental
power, and in this he strongly contrasted with the refined, thoughtful
face of his foreman.

But then, in almost every characteristic the Irishman differed from
his employee. While Jim's word was never questioned even by the
veriest sceptic of the plains, McLagan was notoriously the greatest,
most optimistic liar in the state of Montana. A reputation that
required some niceness of proficiency to retain.

McLagan's ranch was known as the "AZ's." It was a brand selected to
illuminate his opinion of his own undertakings. He said that his ranch
must be the beginning and end of all things in the cattle world, and
he was proud of the ingenuity in his selection of a brand. The less
cultured folk, who, perhaps, had more humor than respect for the
Irishman, found his brand tripped much more easily off the tongue by
replacing the Z with an S, and invariably using the plural.

"Say, Jim," the rancher went on, buoyed with his own enthusiasm, "it's
been a great round-up. Seventy-five per cent. Bully! I'll open out my
scheme. Listen. Ther's Donagh's land buttin' on us. Thirty sections.
They got stations for 10,000 head of stock. We'll buy 'em right out of
business. See? I'm goin' to turn those stations into double. That
slice of land will carry me backing right up into the foot-hills,
which means shelter for my stock in winter. See? Then I'll rent off a
dozen or more homesteads for a supply of grain and hay. You know I
hate to blow hot air around, but I say right here I'm going to help
myself to a mighty big cinch on Montana, and then--why, I'll lay right
on the heels of Congress."

He looked for approval into the bronzed face of his companion. But
Thorpe hesitated, while a shadowy smile lurked in his clear, dark
eyes.

"That's so," he observed, with a suspicious quietness.

"Sure," added the other, to clinch what he believed to be his
companion's approval.

"And then?"

The rancher stirred uneasily. The tone of Thorpe's inquiry suggested
doubt.

"And then?" McLagan repeated uncertainly.

"Why, when you've got all this, and you're the biggest producer in the
country, the beef folk in Chicago 'll beat you down to their price,
and the automobile folk will cut the ground clear from under your
horses' feet. You won't hit Congress, because you won't have the
dollars to buy your