“Will Hardy follow it up?”

“Not too strong.  The folks in Stacey are giving Hardy the laugh.  He’s not so popular as he might be.”

“I can’t say that I blame Hardy, either.  The boy was wrong.”

“Not a bit.  Lorry was wrong.”

“It will blow over,” said Torrance.  “I had no idea he was your son.”

Waring leaned back in his chair.  “John, I had two reasons for coming down here.  One was to get my horse.  That’s settled.  Now I want to talk about leasing a few thousand acres down this way, with water-rights.  I’m through with the other game.  I want to run a few cattle in here, under fence.  I think it will pay.”

Torrance shook his head.  “The Mormons and the Apaches will keep you poor, Jim.”

“They might, if I tried it alone.  But I have a partner just up from the border.  You remember Pat.  He’s been customs inspector at Nogales for some time.”

“I should say I do remember him!”

“Well, he asked me to look around and write to him.  I think we could do well enough here.  What do you know about the land north of here, on up toward the Santa Fe?”

Torrance pondered the situation.  The times were, indeed, changing when men like Waring and Pat ceased to ride the high trails and settled down to ranching under fence.  The day of the gunman was past, but two such men as Pat and Waring would suppress by their mere presence in the country the petty rustling and law-breaking that had made Torrance’s position difficult at times.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said he.  “About how much land?”

“Ten or twenty thousand, to begin with.”

“There’s some Government land not on the reservation between here and the railroad.  There are three or four families of squatters on it now.  I don’t know how they manage to live, but they always seem to have beef and bacon.  You might have some trouble about getting them off—­and about the water.  I’ll let you know some time next month just what I can do.”

“We won’t have any trouble,” said Waring.  “That’s the last thing we want.  I’ll ride over next month.  You can write to me at Stacey if anything turns up.”

“I’ll write to you.  Do you ever get hungry?  Come on over to the hotel.  I’m as hungry as a bear.”

Chapter XIV

Bondsman’s Decision

Bud Shoop’s homestead on the Blue Mesa lay in a wide level of grassland, round which the spruce of the high country swept in a great, blue-edged circle.  To the west the barren peak of Mount Baldy maintained a solitary vigil in sunshine and tempest.  Away to the north the timbered plateaus dropped from level to level like a gigantic stair until they merged with the horizon-line of the plains.  The air on the Blue Mesa was thin and keen; warm in the sun, yet instantly cool at dusk.  A mountain stream, all but hidden by the grasses, meandered across the mesa