This nondescript individual rode up to the verandah on which sat Welton and Bob, awaiting the lunch bell.  He bowed gravely, and dismounted.

“Dis ees Meestair Welton?” he inquired with a courtesy at strange variance with his uncouth appearance.

Welton nodded.

“I am Peter Lejeune,” said the newcomer, announcing one of those hybrid names so common among the transplanted French and Basques of California.  “I have de ship.”

“Oh, yes,” said Welton rising and going forward to offer his hand.  “Come up and sit down, Mr. Leejune.”

The hairy man “tied his mule to the ground” by dropping the end of the reins, and mounted the two steps to the verandah.

“This is my assistant, Mr. Orde,” said Welton.  “How are the sheep coming on?  Mr. Leejune,” he told Bob, “rents the grazing in our timber.”

“Et is not coming,” stated Lejeune with a studied calm.  “Plant he riffuse permit to cross.”

“Permit to what?” asked Welton.

“To cross hees fores’, gov’ment fores’.  I can’ get in here widout cross gov’ment land.  I got to get permit from Plant.  Plant he riffuse.”

Welton rose, staring at his visitor.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he cried at last, “that a man hasn’t got a right to get into his own land?  That they can keep a man out of his own land?”

“Da’s right,” nodded the Frenchman.

“But you’ve been in here for ten years or so to my knowledge.”

Abruptly the sheepman’s calm fell from him.  He became wildly excited.  His black eyes snapped, his hair bristled, he arose from his chair and gesticulated.

“Every year I geev heem three ship!  Three ship!” he repeated, thrusting three stubby fingers at Welton’s face.  “Three little ship!  I stay all summer!  He never say permit.  Thees year he kip me out.”

“Give any reason?” asked Welton.

“He say my ship feed over the line in gov’ment land.”

“Did they?”

“Mebbe so, little bit.  Mebbe not.  Nobody show me line.  Nobody pay no ’tention.  I feed thees range ten year.”

“Did you give him three sheep this year?”

“Sure.”

Welton sighed.

“I can’t go down and tend to this,” said he.  “My foremen are here to be consulted, and the crews will begin to come in to-morrow.  You’ll have to go and see what’s eating this tender Plant, Bob.  Saddle up and ride down with Mr. Leejune.”

Bob took his first lesson in Western riding behind Lejeune and his stolid mule.  He had ridden casually in the East, as had most young men of his way of life, but only enough to make a fair showing on a gentle and easy horse.  His present mount was gentle and easy enough, but Bob was called upon to admire feats of which a Harlem goat might have been proud.  Lejeune soon turned off the wagon road to make his way directly down the side of the mountain.  Bob possessed his full share of personal courage, but