. But he would have to warn Waco, the erstwhile tramp, not to
mistake them for weeds.

"Peace and plenty," muttered Pat, smiling to himself. "The Book sure
knows how to say those things."

The gaunt, grizzled ex-sheriff reached in his vest for a cigar. As he
bit the end off and felt for a match, he saw a black speck wavering in
the distance. He shaded his eyes with his hand.

"'Tain't a machine," he said. "And it ain't a buckboard. Some puncher
lookin' for a job, most likely."

He turned and entered the house. Waco, shaven and in clean shirt and
overalls, was "punching dough" in the kitchen.

"Did Jim say when he would ride in?" queried Pat.

"About sundown. I fixed 'em up some chuck this morning. Jim figures
they're getting too far out to ride in every noon."

"Well, when you get your bread baked we'll take a whirl at those
ditches. How are the supplies holding out?"

"We're short on flour. Got enough to last over till Monday. Plenty bacon
and beans and lard."

"All right. We'll hook up to-morrow and drive in."

Waco nodded as he tucked a roll of dough into the pan. Pat watched him
for a moment. Waco, despite his many shortcomings, could cook, and,
strangely enough, liked to putter round the garden.

Picked up half-starving on the mesa road, near St. Johns, he had been
brought to the ranch by Pat, where a month of clean air and industry had
reshaped the tramp to something like a man. Both Pat and Waring knew
that the hobo was wanted in Stacey. They had agreed to say nothing about
the tramp's whereabouts just so long as he made himself useful about
the ranch. They would give him a chance. But, familiar with his kind,
they were mildly skeptical as to Waco's sincerity of purpose. If he took
to drinking, or if Buck Hardy heard of his whereabouts, he would have to
go. Meanwhile, he earned his keep. He was a good cook, and a good cook,
no matter where or where from, is a power in the land.

As Waco closed the oven door some one hallooed. Pat stepped to the
veranda. A cowboy astride a bay pony asked if Waring were around.

"I can take your message," said Pat.

"Well, it's for you, I guess. Letter from Buck Hardy."

"Yes, it's for me," said Pat. "Who sent you?"

"Hardy. Said something about you had a man down here he wanted."

"All right. Stay for chuck?"

"I got to git back. How's things down this way?"

"Running on time. Just tell Buck I'll be over right soon."

"To-day?"

Pat's gray eyes hardened.