The second week brought better results.  Four of Don Lovell’s herds passed within two days, and the nucleus of cattle increased to one hundred and forty odd, seven crippled horses were left, while the commissary stores fairly showered, a second wagon load being necessary to bring up the cache from the trail crossing.  In all, during the week, fifteen herds passed, only three of which refused the invitation to call, while one was merely drifting along in search of a range to take up and locate with a herd of cattle.  Its owners, new men in the occupation, were scouting wide, and when one of them discovered Hackberry Grove above the homestead, his delight was unbounded, as the range met every requirement for establishing a ranch.

The tyro’s exultation was brief.  On satisfying himself on the source of the water, the splendid shade and abundance of fuel, he rode down the creek to intercept the trail, and on rounding a bend of the Beaver, was surprised to sight a bunch of cattle.  Knowing the value of the range, Forrest had urged the boys to nurse the first contingent of strays up the creek, farther and farther, until they were then ranging within a mile of the grove.  The newcomer could hardly control his chagrin, and as he rode along, scarcely a mile was passed but more cattle were encountered, and finally the tent and homestead loomed in sight.

“Well, I’m glad to have such near neighbors,” affably said the stranger, as he dismounted before the tent.  “Holding down a homestead, I suppose?”

Only Joel and Forrest were at home.  “Not exactly,” replied the latter; “this is headquarters ranch of Wells Brothers; range from the trail crossing on Beaver to the headwaters of the same.  On the trail with cattle, I reckon?”

“Just grazing along until a range can be secured,” replied the man.  “I’ve found a splendid one only a few miles up the creek—­fine grove of timber and living springs.  If the range suits my partner, we’ll move in within a few days and take possession.”

“Notice any cattle as you came down the creek?” politely inquired Forrest.

“Just a few here and there.  They look like strays; must have escaped from some trail herd.  If we decide to locate above, I’ll have them all rounded up and pushed down the creek.”

Joel scented danger as a cub wolf scents blood.  He crossed the arbor and took up a position behind Forrest’s chair.  The latter was a picture of contentment, smiling at the assurance of his caller, and qualifying his remarks with rare irony.

“Well, since you expect to be our neighbor, better unsaddle and stay for dinner,” urged Forrest.  “Let’s get acquainted—­at least, come to some friendly understanding.”

“No, thank you.  My partner is waiting my return to the herd, and will be anxious for my report on the range above.  If possible, we don’t care to locate any farther north.”

“You ought to have secured your range before you bought your cattle.  You seem to have the cart before the horse,” observed the wounded man.