" protested
the other, condescendingly; "hunderd, anyway."

Lancaster stared. "Hunderd!" he cried. "You got th' grass staggers.
_Five_ hunderd."

Braden pursed his lips, his thumbs in his armholes again. "Three hunderd
and fifty, say," he compromised. "_I'd_ be willin' t' give you _that_."

A moment since, the section-boss had been downcast. Now, he guffawed.
"_Would y'?_" he asked; "_would y'?_" There was a sage gleam in his eye.

"I would."

Lancaster sucked his teeth importantly. "Y' couldn' hev it a cent short
o' seven hunderd an' fifty," he declared.

"You'll never get it, sir, _never_. Five hunderd's a spankin' figger."

"Bah!"

"Telling you what's what. There's thousands of acres around here just as
good as your'n any day in the week. But you got this end of the ford.
That makes a little difference."

"Makes 'bout fifteen hunderd dollars' diff'rence."

It was Braden's turn to laugh. "My friend, you'll hist to two thousand
pretty soon," he warned; and arose. "Better take five hunderd and fifty
when it's offered." He flung out his hands as if he were feeding hens.

Lancaster got up with him, righteously angry. "Say, _you_ ain't no
South'ner," he cried. "Jes' a slick Yank. Ah c'n see through you like
winda-pane!"

Braden laughed again, tapping the shoulder of the section-boss. "You
ain't wise," he confided. "Farmin' out here with cows around means
fences. But hang on if you want to. It's your land." He ended this with
a jovial slap, and made for the door. From it, he could see the girls.
He gave them a magnificent bow. "Mornin', mornin'," he said, and walked
out.

Lancaster went back to the hearth, fairly weak with delight. Dallas and
Marylyn joined him. "W'at d' y' think!" gurgled their father. "Say, he
ain't got th' sense he ought 'a' been born with!"

"Don't like him," Dallas declared.

"Pig eyes," suggested Marylyn.

At that the section-boss calmed. "Wal," he said, "he's as good anyhow as
slop-over soldiers."

Meanwhile, Braden was on his way to The Trooper's Delight, his face
glum, his step quick, his arms cutting the air like propellers. When he
lumbered into it, he creaked up to the plank bar and helped himself to a
finger of whisky. Then he propped himself on an elbow and stood scowling
into the rear of the room.

From the gaming-table sounded the raillery of a dozen men. Matthews was
there, heels up, hat tipped back, a cigar set between his little teeth.

"What y' givin' us," cried