“Consarn your hide!” he roared with the utmost good humour; “stand out of the light so I can see your fool face.  You lie like a hound!  Everybody knows my boys!”

There was no offence in the words.

Bob laughed and obligingly stepped one side the lighted doorway.

“A towerist!” wheezed the fat man.  “Say, you’re too early.  Nothing doing in the mountains yet.  Who sent you this early, anyway?”

“No tourist; permanent inhabitant,” said Bob.  “I’m with Welton.”

“Timber, by God!” exploded the fat man.  “Well, you and I are like to have friendly doings.  Your road goes through us, and you got to toe the mark, young fellow, let me tell you!  I’m a hell of a hard man to get on with!”

“You look it,” said Bob.  “You own some timber?”

The fat man exploded again.

“Hell, no!” he roared.  “Why, you don’t even know me, do you?  I’m Plant, Henry Plant.  I’m Forest Supervisor.”

“My name’s Orde,” said Bob.  “If you’re after Forest Rangers, there’s three in there.”

“The rascals!” cried Plant.  He raised his voice to a bellow.  “Oh, you Jim!”

The door was darkened.

“Say, Jim,” said Plant.  “They tell me there’s a fire over Stone Creek way.  Somebody’s got to take a look at it.  You and Joe better ride over in the morning and see what she looks like.”

The man stretched his arms over his head and yawned.  “Oh, hell!” said he with deep feeling.  “Ain’t you got any of those suckers that like to ride?  I’ve had a headache for three days.”

“Yes, it’s hard luck you got to do anything, ain’t it,” said Plant.  “Well, I’ll see if I can find old John, and if you don’t hear from me, you got to go.”

The Supervisor gathered up his reins and was about to proceed when down through the fading twilight rode a singular figure.  It was a thin, wiry, tall man, with a face like tanned leather, a clear, blue eye and a drooping white moustache.  He wore a flopping old felt hat, a faded cotton shirt and an ancient pair of copper-riveted blue-jeans overalls tucked into a pair of cowboy’s boots.  A time-discoloured cartridge belt encircled his hips, supporting a holster from which protruded the shiny butt of an old-fashioned Colt’s 45.  But if the man was thus nondescript and shabby, his mount and its caparisons were magnificent.  The horse was a glossy, clean-limbed sorrel with a quick, intelligent eye.  The bridle was of braided rawhide, the broad spade-bit heavily inlaid with silver, the reins of braided and knotted rawhide.  Across the animal’s brow ran three plates of silver linked together.  Below its ears were wide silver conchas.  The saddle was carved elaborately, and likewise ornamented with silver.  The whole outfit shone—­new-polished and well kept.

“Oh, you John!” called Plant.

The old man moved his left hand slightly.  The proud-stepping sorrel instantly turned to the left, and, on a signal Bob could not distinguish, stopped to statue-like immobility.  Then Bob could see the Forest Ranger badge pinned to one strap of the old man’s suspender.