er formed that low mound half-hidden by the
darkness.

A yellow star, close to the eastern horizon, twinkled faintly and then
disappeared. The saloon at Criswell had been closed for the night.

Next morning the marshal of Criswell sent a messenger to the telegraph
office at the junction. There was no railroad entering the Criswell
Valley. The messenger bore three telegraph messages; one to Sheriff
Hardy, one to Bud Shoop, and one to Mrs. Adams.

Ramon, outside Waring's room in the marshal's house, listened as the
local doctor moved about. Presently he heard the doctor ask a question.
Waring's voice answered faintly. Ramon stepped from the door and found
his way to the stable. Dex, placidly munching alfalfa, turned his head
as Ramon came in.

"The Senor Jim is not dead," he told the horse.

And, leaning against Dex, he wept softly, as women weep, with a
happiness too great to bear. The big horse nuzzled his shoulder with his
velvet-smooth nose, as though he would sympathize. Then he turned to
munching alfalfa again in huge content. He had had a weary journey. And
though his master had not come to feed him, here was the gentle,
low-voiced Ramon, whom he knew as a friend.

CHAPTER XX

_City Folks_

Bud Shoop's new duties kept him exceedingly busy. As the days went by he
found himself more and more tied to office detail. Fortunately Torrance
had left a well-organized corps of rangers, each with his own special
work mapped out, work that Shoop understood, with the exception of
seeding and planting experiments, which Lundy, the expert, attended to
as though the reserve were his own and his life depended upon successful
results along his special line.

Shoop had long since given up trying to dictate letters. Instead he
wrote what he wished to say on slips of paper which his clerk cast into
conventional form. The genial Bud's written directions were brief and to
the point.

Among the many letters received was one from a writer of Western
stories, applying for a lease upon which to build a summer camp. His
daughter's health was none too good, and he wanted to be in the
mountains. Shoop studied the letter. He had a vague recollection of
having heard of the writer. The request was legitimate. There was no
reason for not granting it.

Shoop called in his stenographer. "Ever read any of that fella's
books?"

"Who? Bronson? Yes. He writes bang-up Western stories."

"He does, eh? Well, you get hold of one of