t get a word out of him about wimmin-folk,
neither. He ain't that kind of a colt. But I reckon when he sees the gal
he wants he'll saddle up and ride out and take her." And Bud chuckled.

Bondsman rapped the floor with his tail. Bondsman never failed to
express a sympathetic mood when his master chuckled.

"Now, look at that," said Shoop, grinning. "He knows I'm goin' over to
Stacey. He heard me say it. And he says I got to take him along, 'cause
he knows I ain't goin' on a hoss. That there dog bosses me around
somethin' scandalous."

The stenographer smiled as Shoop waddled from the office with Bondsman
at his heels. There was something humorous, almost pathetic, in the
gaunt and grizzled Airedale's affection for his rotund master. And
Shoop's broad back, with the shoulders stooped slightly and the set
stride as he plodded here and there, often made the clerk smile. Yet
there was nothing humorous about Shoop's face when he flashed to anger
or studied some one who tried to mask a lie, or when he reprimanded his
clerk for naming folk that it was hazardous to name.

The typewriter clicked; a fly buzzed on the screen door; a beam of
sunlight flickered through the window. The letter ran:--

Yours of the 4th inst. received and contents noted. In answer would
state that Supervisor Shoop would be glad to have you call at your
earliest convenience in regard to leasing a camp-site on the White
Mountain Reserve.

Essentially a business letter of the correspondence-school type.

But the stenographer was not thinking of style. He was wondering what
the girl would be like. There was to be a girl. The writer had said that
he wished to build a camp to which he could bring his daughter, who was
not strong. The clerk thought that a writer's daughter might be an
interesting sort of person. Possibly she was like some of the heroines
in the writer's stories. It would be interesting to meet her. He had
written a poem once himself. It was about spring, and had been published
in the local paper. He wondered if the writer's daughter liked poetry.

In the meantime, Lorry, with two pack-animals and Gray Leg, rode the
hills and canons, attending to the many duties of a ranger.

And as he caught his stride in the work he began to feel that he was his
own man. Miles from headquarters, he was often called upon to make a
quick decision that required instant and individual judgment. He made
mistakes, but never failed to report