Twenty thousand acres under fence, with plenty of water, would take care of eight hundred or a thousand head of cattle.  And as a provision against a lean winter, Waring had put a mowing-machine in at the eastern end of the range, where the bunch-grass was heavy enough to cut.  It would be necessary to winter-feed.  Four hundred white-faced Herefords grazed in the autumn sunshine.  Riding round and among them leisurely was the Mexican youth, Ramon.

Backed against a butte near the middle of the range was the broad, low-roofed ranch-house.  A windmill purred in the light breeze, its lean, flickering shadow aslant the corrals.  The buildings looked new and raw in contrast to the huge pile of grayish-green greasewood and scrub cedar gathered from the clearing round them.

In front of the house was a fenced acre, ploughed and harrowed to a dead level.  This was to be Pat’s garden, wherein he had planned to grow all sorts of green things, including cucumbers.  At the moment Pat was standing under the veranda roof, gazing out across the ranch.  The old days of petty warfare, long night rides, and untold hardships were past.  Next spring his garden would bloom; tiny green tendrils would swell to sturdy vines.  Corn-leaves would broaden to waving green blades shot with the rich brown of the ripening ears.  Although he had never spoken of it, Pat had dreamed of blue flowers nodding along the garden fence; old-fashioned bachelor’s-buttons that would spring up as though by accident.  But he would have to warn Waco, the erstwhile tramp, not to mistake them for weeds.

“Peace and plenty,” muttered Pat, smiling to himself.  “The Book sure knows how to say those things.”

The gaunt, grizzled ex-sheriff reached in his vest for a cigar.  As he bit the end off and felt for a match, he saw a black speck wavering in the distance.  He shaded his eyes with his hand.

“’Tain’t a machine,” he said.  “And it ain’t a buckboard.  Some puncher lookin’ for a job, most likely.”

He turned and entered the house.  Waco, shaven and in clean shirt and overalls, was “punching dough” in the kitchen.

“Did Jim say when he would ride in?” queried Pat.

“About sundown.  I fixed ’em up some chuck this morning.  Jim figures they’re getting too far out to ride in every noon.”

“Well, when you get your bread baked we’ll take a whirl at those ditches.  How are the supplies holding out?”

“We’re short on flour.  Got enough to last over till Monday.  Plenty bacon and beans and lard.”

“All right.  We’ll hook up to-morrow and drive in.”

Waco nodded as he tucked a roll of dough into the pan.  Pat watched him for a moment.  Waco, despite his many shortcomings, could cook, and, strangely enough, liked to putter round the garden.