“Well, I might get some atmosphere ideas,” he said at last.  “If you don’t mind having me trail along—­”

“Glad to have yuh!” came an instant duet.

“And if I can scare up a horse—­”

“Oh, we’ll look after that.  You can come right on out with us.  The boys’ll be plumb tickled to death to meet you.”

“Are they all farmers, same as you—­these boys you mention?” Luck looked up into Andy’s eyes when he asked the question.

Andy grinned.  “Farmers, yes—­same as us!” he said ambiguously and picked up his gloves as he turned to lead the way out.

CHAPTER THREE

AND THEY SIGH FOR THE DAYS THAT ARE GONE

Just when Luck’s new acquaintances first forgot to carry on their whimsical pretense of knowing little of range matters, neither of them could have told afterwards.  They left town with the tacit understanding between them that they were going to have some fun with the Happy Family and with this likable little man of the movies.  They rode out between long lines of hated barbed wire stretched taut, and they lied systematically and consistently to Luck Lindsay about themselves and their fellows and their particular condition of servitude to fate.

But somewhere along the trail they forgot to carry on the deception; and only Luck could have told why they forgot, and when they forgot, and how it was that, ten miles or so out from town, the two were telling how the Flying U had fought to save itself from extinction; how the “bunch” had schemed and worked and had in a measure succeeded in turning aside the tide of immigration from the Flying U range.  Big issues they talked of as they rode three abreast through the warm haze of early fall; and as they talked, Luck’s mind visioned the tale vividly, and his eyes swept the fence-checkered upland with a sympathetic understanding.

“Right here,” said Andy at last, when they came up to a gate set across the trail, “right here is where we drawed the line—­and held it.  Now, half of those shacks you see speckled around are empty.  The rest hold nesters too poor to get outa the country.  One or two, that had a little money, have stuck and gone into sheep.  But from here on to Dry Creek there’s nothing ranging but the Flying U brand.  Not much—­compared to what the old range used to be—­but still it keeps things going.  We throwed a dam across the coulee, up there next the hills, and there’s some fair hay land we’re putting water on.  We have to winter-feed practically everything these days.  The range just nicely keeps the stock from snow to snow.  I’ve got pitchfork callouses on my hands I never will outgrow if I was to fall heir to a billion dollars and never use my hands again for fifty years except to feed myself.  It takes work, believe me!  And if there’s anything on earth a puncher hates worse than work, it’s some other kind of work.

“At the Flying U,” he went on, looking at Luck pensively, “you’ll see the effect of too many people moved into the range country.  If there’s anything more distressing than a baby left without a mother, it’s a bunch of cow-punchers that’s outlived their range.  Ain’t that right?”