garden.

So, then, it was no surprise to the ranchhold when the buckboard spun
to the door, and Raidler took up his debile /protege/ like a handful
of rags and set him down upon the gallery.

McGuire looked upon things strange to him. The ranch-house was the
best in the country. It was built of brick hauled one hundred miles by
wagon, but it was of but one story, and its four rooms were completely
encircled by a mud floor "gallery." The miscellaneous setting of
horses, dogs, saddles, wagons, guns, and cow-punchers' paraphernalia
oppressed the metropolitan eyes of the wrecked sportsman.

"Well, here we are at home," said Raidler, cheeringly.

"It's a h--l of a looking place," said McGuire promptly, as he rolled
upon the gallery floor in a fit of coughing.

"We'll try to make it comfortable for you, buddy," said the cattleman
gently. "It ain't fine inside; but it's the outdoors, anyway, that'll
do you the most good. This'll be your room, in here. Anything we got,
you ask for it."

He led McGuire into the east room. The floor was bare and clean. White
curtains waved in the gulf breeze through the open windows. A big
willow rocker, two straight chairs, a long table covered with
newspapers, pipes, tobacco, spurs, and cartridges stood in the centre.
Some well-mounted heads of deer and one of an enormous black javeli
projected from the walls. A wide, cool cot-bed stood in a corner.
Nueces County people regarded this guest chamber as fit for a prince.
McGuire showed his eyeteeth at it. He took out his nickel and spun it
up to the ceiling.

"T'ought I was lyin' about the money, did ye? Well, you can frisk me
if you wanter. Dat's the last simoleon in the treasury. Who's goin' to
pay?"

The cattleman's clear grey eyes looked steadily from under his grizzly
brows into the huckleberry optics of his guest. After a little he said
simply, and not ungraciously, "I'll be much obliged to you, son, if
you won't mention money any more. Once was quite a plenty. Folks I ask
to my ranch don't have to pay anything, and they very scarcely ever
offers it. Supper'll be ready in half an hour. There's water in the
pitcher, and some, cooler, to drink, in that red jar hanging on the
gallery."

"Where's the bell?" asked McGuire, looking about.

"Bell for what?"

"Bell to ring for things. I can't--see here," he exploded in a sudden,
weak fury, "I never asked you to bring me here. I never held you up
for a cent. I never gave you a hard-luc