THE MAN OF DRY BOTTOM

A young man rode around the corner of the cabin and halted his pony
beside the porch, sitting quietly in the saddle and gazing inquiringly
at the two. He was about Ferguson's age and, like the latter, he wore
two heavy guns. There was about him, as he sat there sweeping a slow
glance over the girl and the man, a certain atmosphere of deliberate
certainty and quiet coldness that gave an impression of readiness for
whatever might occur.

Ferguson's eyes lighted with satisfaction. The girl might be an
Easterner, but the young man was plainly at home in this country.
Nowhere, except in the West, could he have acquired the serene calm
that shone out of his eyes; in no other part of the world could he have
caught the easy assurance, the unstudied nonchalance, that seems the
inherent birthright of the cowpuncher.

"Ben," said the girl, answering the young man's glance, "this man was
bitten by a rattler. He came here, and I treated him. He says he was
on his way over to the Two Diamond, for a job."

The young man opened his lips slightly. "Stafford hire you?" he asked.

"I'm hopin' he does," returned Ferguson.

The young man's lips drooped sneeringly. "I reckon you're wantin' a
job mighty bad," he said.

Ferguson smiled. "Takin' your talk, you an' Stafford ain't very good
friends," he returned.

The young man did not answer. He dismounted and led his pony to a
small corral and then returned to the porch, carrying his saddle.

For an instant after the young man had left the porch to turn his pony
into the corral Ferguson had kept his seat on the porch. But something
in the young man's tone had brought him out of the chair, determined to
accept no more of his hospitality. If the young man was no friend of
Stafford, it followed that he could not feel well disposed to a puncher
who had avowed that his purpose was to work for the Two Diamond manager.

Ferguson was on his feet, clinging to one of the slender porch posts,
preparatory to stepping down to go to his pony, when the young woman
came out. Her sharp exclamation halted him.

"You're not going now!" she said. "You have got to remain perfectly
quiet until morning!"

The brother dropped his saddle to the porch floor, grinning mildly at
Ferguson, "You don't need to be in a hurry," he said. "I was intending
to run your horse into the corral. What I meant about Stafford don't
apply to you." He looked up at his sister, still gri