So he banged loudly at the door.

Eventually a light showed in an upper window and a voice cried:  “Who’s there?”

“Anthony Bard.”

“Who the devil is Anthony Bard?”

“Lost in the hills.  Can you give me a place to sleep for the rest of the night?  I’m about done up.”

“Wait a minute.”

Voices stirred in the upper part of the house; the lantern disappeared; steps sounded, descending the stairs, and then the door was unbarred and held a cautious inch ajar.  The ray of light jumped out at Bard like an accusing arm.

Evidently a brief survey convinced Jerry Wood that the stranger was no more than what he pretended.  He opened the door wide and stepped back.

“Come in.”

Bard moved inside, taking off his hat.

“How’d you happen to be lost in the hills?”

“I’m a bit of a stranger around here, you see.”

The other surveyed him with a growing grin.

“I guess maybe you are.  Sure, we’ll put you up for the night.  Where’s your hoss?”

He went out and raised the lantern above his head to look.  The light shone back from the lustrous wide eyes of the grey.

Wood turned to Bard.

“Seems to me I’ve seen that hoss.”

“Yes.  I bought it from Duffy out at Drew’s place.”

“Oh!  Friend of Mr. Drew?”

Half a life spent on the mountain-desert had not been enough to remove from Drew that distinguishing title of respect.  The range has more great men than it has “misters.”

“Not exactly a friend,” answered Bard.

“Sail right.  Long’s you know him, you’re as good as gold with me.  Come on along to the barn and we’ll knock down a feed for the hoss.”

He chuckled as he led the way.

“For that matter, there ain’t any I know that can say they’re friends to William Drew, though there’s plenty that would like to if they thought they could get away with it.  How’s he lookin’?”

“Why, big and grey.”

“Sure.  He never changes none.  Time and years don’t mean nothin’ to Drew.  He started bein’ a man when most of us is in short pants; he’ll keep on bein’ a man till he goes out.  He ain’t got many friends—­real ones—­but I don’t know of any enemies, neither.  All the time he’s been on the range Drew has never done a crooked piece of work.  Every decent man on the range would take his word ag’in’—­well, ag’in’ the Bible, for that matter.”

They reached the barn at the end of this encomium, and Bard unsaddled his horse.  The other watched him critically.

“Know somethin’ about hosses, eh?”

“A little.”

“When I seen you, I put you down for a tenderfoot.  Don’t mind, do you?  The way you talked put me out.”

“For that matter, I suppose I am a tenderfoot.”

“Speakin’ of tenderfoots, I heard of one over to Eldara the other night that raised considerable hell.  You ain’t him, are you?”