he dark outline of a trail leading
mountainward.

The heifers drowsed lazily in the brown grass. Y.D., shading his eyes
the better with his hand, gazed long and thoughtfully at the purple
range. Then he spat decisively over his horse's shoulder and made a
strange "cluck" in his throat. The knowing animal at once set out on
a trot to stir the lazy heifers into movement, and presently they were
trailing slowly up into the foothill country.

Far up, where the trail ahead apparently dropped over the end of the
world, a horse and rider hove in view. They came on leisurely, and half
an hour elapsed before they met the rancher trailing west.

The stranger was a rancher of fifty, wind-whipped and weather-beaten of
countenance. The iron grey of his hair and moustache suggested the iron
of the man himself; iron of figure, of muscle, of will.

"'Day," he said, affably, coming to a halt a few feet from Y.D.
"Trailing into the foothills?"

Y.D. lolled in his saddle. His attitude did not invite conversation,
and, on the other hand, intimated no desire to avoid it.

"Maybe," he said, noncommittally. Then, relaxing somewhat,--"Any water
farther up?"

"About eight miles. Sundown should see you there, and there's a decent
spot to camp. You're a stranger here?" The older man was evidently
puzzling over the big "Y.D." branded on the ribs of the little herd.

"It's a big country," Y.D. answered. "It's a plumb big country, for
sure, an' I guess a man can be a stranger in some corners of it, can't
he?"

Y.D. began to resent the other man's close scrutiny of his brand.

"Well, what's wrong with it?" he demanded.

"Oh, nothing. No offense. I just wondered what 'Y.D.' might stand for."

"Might stand for Yankee devil," said Y.D., with a none-of-your-business
curl of his lip. But he had carried his curtness too far, and was not
prepared for the quick retort.

"Might also stand for yellow dog, and be damned to you!" The stranger's
strong figure sat up stern and knit in his saddle.

Y.D.'s hand went to his hip, but the other man was unarmed. You can't
draw on a man who isn't armed.

"Listen!" the older man continued, in sharp, clear-cut notes. "You are
a stranger not only to our trails, but our customs. You are a young man.
Let me give you some advice. First--get rid of that artillery. It will
do you more harm than good. And second, when a stranger speaks to you
civilly, answer him the same. My name is Wilson--Frank Wilson, and if