Picked up half-starving on the mesa road, near St. Johns, he had been brought to the ranch by Pat, where a month of clean air and industry had reshaped the tramp to something like a man.  Both Pat and Waring knew that the hobo was wanted in Stacey.  They had agreed to say nothing about the tramp’s whereabouts just so long as he made himself useful about the ranch.  They would give him a chance.  But, familiar with his kind, they were mildly skeptical as to Waco’s sincerity of purpose.  If he took to drinking, or if Buck Hardy heard of his whereabouts, he would have to go.  Meanwhile, he earned his keep.  He was a good cook, and a good cook, no matter where or where from, is a power in the land.

As Waco closed the oven door some one hallooed.  Pat stepped to the veranda.  A cowboy astride a bay pony asked if Waring were around.

“I can take your message,” said Pat.

“Well, it’s for you, I guess.  Letter from Buck Hardy.”

“Yes, it’s for me,” said Pat.  “Who sent you?”

“Hardy.  Said something about you had a man down here he wanted.”

“All right.  Stay for chuck?”

“I got to git back.  How’s things down this way?”

“Running on time.  Just tell Buck I’ll be over right soon.”

“To-day?”

Pat’s gray eyes hardened.  “Buck tell you to ask me that?”

“Well—­no.  I was just wonderin’.”

“Then keep right on wondering,” said Pat.  “You got your answer.”

The cowboy swung up and rode off.  “To hell with him!” he said.  “Thinks he can throw a scare into me because he’s got a name for killin’.  To hell him!”

Pat climbed the hill back of the house and surveyed the glimmering levels.

“Wish Jim would ride in.  Funny thing—­Hardy sending a Starr boy with word for me.  But perhaps the kid was riding this way, anyhow.”

Pat shook his head, and climbed slowly down to the house.  Waco was busy in the kitchen when he came in.

After the noon meal, Pat again climbed the hill.  He seemed worried about something.  When he returned he told Waco to hitch the pintos to the buckboard.

“Get your coat,” he told Waco.  “We’re going over to Stacey.”

Waco’s hands trembled.  “Say, boss, if you don’t mind—­”

“Get your coat.  I’ll talk to Buck.  You needn’t to worry.  I’ll square you with Buck.  We can use you here.”

Waco did as he was told.  They drove out of the yard.  Waco leaped down and closed the gate.

The pintos shook themselves into the harness and trotted down the faintly marked new road.  The buckboard swayed and jolted.  Something rubbed against Waco’s hip.  He glanced down and saw Pat’s gun on the seat between them.  Pat said nothing.  He was thinking hard.  The cowboy messenger’s manner had not been natural.  The note bore the printed heading of the sheriff’s office.  Perhaps it was all right.  And if it were not, Pat was not the man to back down from a bluff.