sary to entertain the least question as to his perfect honesty.

Fyles accepted the introduction in the spirit in which it was made.

"My name's Fyles--Stanley Fyles," he said cordially. "Glad to meet
you, Mr. Bryant."

"Bill Bryant," corrected the other, grasping and wringing the
policeman's proffered hand with painful cordiality. "That's a good
name--Fyles," he went on, releasing the other's hand. "Suggests all
sorts of things--nails, chisels--something in the hardware line. Good
name for this country, too." Then his big blue eyes scanned the
officer's outfit. "Rancher?" he suggested.

Fyles smiled, shaking his head.

"Hardly a--rancher," he deprecated.

"Ah. I know. Cowpuncher. You're dressed that way. I've read about 'em.
Chasing cattle. Rounding 'em up. Branding, and all that sort of thing.
Fine. Exciting."

Fyles shook his head again.

"My job's not just that, either," he said, his smile broadening. "You
see, I just round up 'strays,' and send 'em to their right homes. I'm
out after 'strays' now."

Bill nodded with ready understanding.

"I get it," he cried. "They just break out in spring, and go chasing
after fancy grass. Then they get lost, or mussed up with ether cattle,
and--and need sorting out. Must be a mighty lonesome job--always
hunting 'strays.'"

Inspector Fyles's eyes twinkled, but his sunburned face remained
serious.

"Yes, I'd say it's lonesome--at times. You see, it isn't easy locating
their tracks. And when you do locate 'em maybe you've got a long piece
to travel before you come up with 'em. They get mighty wild running
loose that way, and, hate being rounded up. Some of 'em show fight,
and things get busy. No, it's not dead easy--and it doesn't do making
mistakes. Guess a mistake is liable to snuff your light out when
you're up against 'strays.'"

A sudden enthusiasm lit Bill Bryant's interested eyes.

"That sounds better than ranching," he said quickly. "You see, I've
lived a soft sort of life, and it kind of seems good to get upsides
with things. I've got a notion that it's better to hand a feller a
nasty bunch of knuckles, square on the most prominent part of his
face, than taking dollars out of him to pay legal chin waggers. That's
how I've always felt, but living in luxury in a city makes you act
otherwise. I've quit it though, now, and, in consequence, I'm just
busting to hand some fellow that bunch of knuckles." He raised one
great clenched fist and examined it with a so