e foreman's ribs
companionably with his elbow. "Don't I know it?" he repeated, as his
mind apparently ran back over some reminiscence that verified Linder's
remark. It was evident from the pleasant grimaces of George's face that
whatever he had suffered from the uncertain sex was forgiven.

"Say, Lin," he resumed after another pause, and this time in a more
confidential tone, "do you s'pose Transley's got a notion that way?"

"Shouldn't wonder. Transley always knows what he's doing, and why. Y.D.
must be worth a million or so, and the girl is all he's got to leave
it to. Besides all that, no doubt she's well worth having on her own
account."

"Well, I'm sorry for the boss," George replied, with great soberness. "I
alus hate to disappoint the boss."

"Huh!" said Linder. He knew George Drazk too well for further comment.
After his unlimited pride in and devotion to his horse, George gave his
heart unreservedly to womankind. He suffered from no cramping niceness
in his devotions; that would have limited the play of his passion; to
him all women were alike--or nearly so. And no number of rebuffs could
convince George that he was unpopular with the objects of his democratic
affections. Such a conclusion was, to him, too absurd to be entertained,
no matter how many experiences might support it. If opportunity offered
he doubtless would propose to Y.D.'s daughter that very night--and get a
boxed ear for his pains.

The Y.D. creek had crossed its valley, shouldering close against the
base of the foothills to the right. Here the current had created a
precipitous cutbank, and to avoid it and the stream the trail wound over
the side of the hill. As they crested a corner the silver ribbon of the
Y.D. was unravelled before them, and half a dozen miles down its
course the ranch buildings lay clustered in a grove of cottonwoods and
evergreens. All the great valley lay warm and pulsating in a flood
of yellow sunshine; the very earth seemed amorous and content in the
embrace of sun and sky. The majesty of the view seized even the unpoetic
souls of Linder and Drazk, and because they had no other means of
expression they swore vaguely and relapsed into silence.

Hoof-beats again sounded by the wagon side. It was Transley.

"Oh, here you are, Drazk. How long do you reckon it would take you to
ride down to the Y.D. on that Pete-horse?" Transley was a leader of men.

Drazk's eyes sparkled at the subtle compliment to his horse.

"I