“You won’t need it,” he assured Bob.  “I’ll pass the word.  But there you are.”

“Thanks,” said Bob, folding away the paper.  “You seem to be comfortably fixed here.”

Plant heaved his mighty body to its legs.  His fat face beamed with pride.

“My boy,” he confided to Bob, laying a pudgy hand on the young man’s shoulder, “this is the best camp in the mountains—­without any exception.”

He insisted on showing Bob around.  Of course, the young fellow, unaccustomed as yet to the difficulties of mountain transportation, could not quite appreciate to the full extent the value in forethought and labour of such things as glass windows, hanging lamps, enamelled table service, open fireplaces, and all the thousand and one conveniences—­either improvised or transported mule-back—­that Plant displayed.  Nevertheless he found the place most comfortable and attractive.

They caught a glimpse of skirts disappearing, but in spite of Plant’s roar of “Minnie!” the woman failed to appear.

“My niece,” he explained.

In spite of himself, Bob found that he was beginning to like the fat man.  There could be no doubt that the Supervisor was a great rascal; neither could there be any doubt but that his personality was most attractive.  He had a bull-like way of roaring out his jokes, his orders, or his expostulations; a smashing, dry humour; and, above all, an invariably confident and optimistic belief that everything was going well and according to everyone’s desires.  His manner, too, was hearty, his handclasp warm.  He fairly radiated good-fellowship and good humour as he rolled about.  Bob’s animosity thawed in spite of his half-amused realization of what he ought to feel.

When the tour of inspection had brought them again to the grove where the men were at work, they found two new arrivals.

These were evidently brothers, as their square-cut features proclaimed.  They squatted side by side on their heels.  Two good horses with the heavy saddles and coiled ropes of the stockmen looked patiently over their shoulders.  A mule, carrying a light pack, wandered at will in the background.  The men wore straight-brimmed, wide felt hats, short jumpers, and overalls of blue denim, and cowboy boots armed with the long, blunt spurs of the craft.  Their faces were stubby with a week’s growth, but their blue eyes were wide apart and clear.

“Hullo, Pollock,” greeted Plant, as he dropped, blowing, into his chair.

The men nodded briefly, never taking their steady gaze from Plant’s face.  After a due and deliberate pause, the elder spoke.

“They’s a thousand head of Wright’s cattle been drove in on our ranges this year,” said he.

“I issued Wright permits for that number, Jim,” replied Plant blandly.

“But that’s plumb crowdin’ of our cattle off’n the range,” protested the mountaineer.

“No, it ain’t,” denied Plant.  “That range will keep a thousand cattle more.  I’ve had complete reports on it.  I know what I’m doing.”