er Ranch is the best-lookin' girl
in these parts. I was goin' to slick up and drop around to see her, but
this here Injun agent got in ahead of me. A man with nothin' but a
cowpony don't stand a show against a feller with an auto when it comes
to callin' on girls these days."

The nasal, drawling voice of Andy Wolters, cowpuncher for one of the big
leasing outfits on the Indian reservation, came to the ears of Bill
Talpers as the trader sat behind his post-office box screen, scowling
out upon a sunshiny world.

A chorus of laughter from other cowpunchers greeted the frank
declaration of Mr. Wolters.

"Agent or no agent, you wouldn't stand a show with that girl," chimed in
one of the punchers. "The squaw professor'd run you through the
barb-wire fence so fast that you'd leave hide and clothes stickin' to
it. Willis Morgan ain't ever had a visitor on his place sence he run the
Greek Letter brand on his first steer."

"Well, he ain't got any more steers left. That old white horse is all
the stock I see of his--anyways, it's all that's carryin' that pitchfork
brand."

"You know what they say about how old Morgan got that pitchfork brand,
don't you?--how he was huntin' through the brand book one night, turnin'
the pages over and cussin' because nothin' seemed to suit his fancy,
when all of a sudden there was a bright light and a strong smell of
sulphur, and the devil himself was right there at Morgan's side. 'Use
this for a brand,' says the devil, and there was the mark of his
pitchfork burnt on Morgan's front door, right where you'll see it to-day
if you ever want to go clost enough."

"Anyway, git that out of your head about Morgan's ranch never havin' any
visitors," said another cowboy. "This here Injun agent's auto runs down
there reg'lar. Must be that he's a kind of a Trilby and has got old
Morgan hypnotized."

"Aw, you mean a Svengali."

"I bet you these spurs against a package of smokin' tobacco I know what
I mean," stoutly asserted the cowpuncher whose literary knowledge had
been called in question, and then the talk ran along the familiar
argumentative channels that had no interest for Bill Talpers.

The trader looked back into the shadowy depths of his store. Besides the
cowboys there were several Indians leaning against the counters or
sitting lazily on boxes and barrels. Shelves and counters were piled
with a colorful miscellany of goods calculated to appeal to primitive
tastes. There were bright blan