t up from the
border. You remember Pat. He's been customs inspector at Nogales for
some time."

"I should say I do remember him!"

"Well, he asked me to look around and write to him. I think we could do
well enough here. What do you know about the land north of here, on up
toward the Santa Fe?"

Torrance pondered the situation. The times were, indeed, changing when
men like Waring and Pat ceased to ride the high trails and settled down
to ranching under fence. The day of the gunman was past, but two such
men as Pat and Waring would suppress by their mere presence in the
country the petty rustling and law-breaking that had made Torrance's
position difficult at times.

"I'll see what I can do," said he. "About how much land?"

"Ten or twenty thousand, to begin with."

"There's some Government land not on the reservation between here and
the railroad. There are three or four families of squatters on it now. I
don't know how they manage to live, but they always seem to have beef
and bacon. You might have some trouble about getting them off--and about
the water. I'll let you know some time next month just what I can do."

"We won't have any trouble," said Waring. "That's the last thing we
want. I'll ride over next month. You can write to me at Stacey if
anything turns up."

"I'll write to you. Do you ever get hungry? Come on over to the hotel.
I'm as hungry as a bear."

Chapter XIV

_Bondsman's Decision_

Bud Shoop's homestead on the Blue Mesa lay in a wide level of grassland,
round which the spruce of the high country swept in a great, blue-edged
circle. To the west the barren peak of Mount Baldy maintained a solitary
vigil in sunshine and tempest. Away to the north the timbered plateaus
dropped from level to level like a gigantic stair until they merged with
the horizon-line of the plains. The air on the Blue Mesa was thin and
keen; warm in the sun, yet instantly cool at dusk. A mountain stream,
all but hidden by the grasses, meandered across the mesa to an emerald
hollow of coarse marsh-grass. A few yards from this pool, and on its
southern side, stood the mountain cabin of the Shoop homestead, a roomy
building of logs, its wide, easy-sloping veranda roof covered with
home-made shakes. Near the house was a small corral and stable of logs.
Out on the mesa a thin crop of oats wavered in the itinerant breeze.
Round the cabin was a garden plot that had suffered from want of
attention. Above the gate to