I walked around and let down the neck-yoke, and his eyes followed me with suspicion.  “Hello, Mr. King,” I sang out in a brazen attempt to hypnotize him into the belief we were friends.  “How’s the world using you, these days?”

“Huh!” grunted the unhypnotized one, deep in his chest.

Frosty straightened up and looked at me queerly; he said afterward that he couldn’t make out whether I was trying to pull off a gun fight, or had gone dippy.

But I was only in the last throes of exuberance at being in the country at all, and I didn’t give a damn what King thought; I’d made up my mind to be sociable, and that settled it.

“Range is looking fine,” I remarked, snapping the inside checks back into the hame-rings.  “Stock come through the winter in good shape?” Oh, I had my nerve right along with me.

“You go to hell,” advised King, bringing out each word fresh-coined and shiny with feeling.

“I was headed that way,” I smiled across at him, “but at the last minute I gave Montana first choice; I knew you were still here, you see.”

He let go the bridle of the horse he was about to lead away to the stable, and limped around so that he stood within two feet of me.  “Yuh want to—­” he began, and then his mouth stayed open and silent.

I had reached out and got him by the hand, and gave him a grip—­the grip that made all the fellows quit offering their paws to me in Frisco.

“Put it there, King!” I cried idiotically and as heartily as I knew how.  “Glad to see you.  Dad’s well and busy as usual, and sends regards.  How’s your good health?”

He was squirming good and plenty, by that time, and I let him go.  I acted the fool, all right, and I don’t tell it to have any one think I was a smart young sprig; I’m just putting it out straight as it happened.

Frosty stood back, and I noticed, out of the tail of my eye, that he was ready for trouble and expecting it to come in bunches; and I didn’t know, myself, but what I was due for new ventilators in my system.

But King never did a thing but stand and hold his hand and look at me.  I couldn’t even guess at what he thought.  In half a minute or less he got his horse by the bridle again—­with his left hand—­and went limping off ahead of us to the stable, saying things in his collar.

“You blasted fool,” Frosty muttered to me.  “You’ve done it real pretty, this time.  That old Siwash’ll cut your throat, like as not, to pay for all those insulting remarks and that hand-shake.”

“First time I ever insulted a man by shaking hands and telling him I was glad to see him,” I retorted.  “And I don’t think it will be necessary for you to stand guard over my jugular to-night, either.  That old boy will take a lot of time to study out the situation, if I’m any judge.  You won’t hear a peep out of him, and I’ll bet money on it.”

“All right,” said Frosty, and his tone sounded dubious.  “But you’re the first Ragged H man that has ever walked up and shook hands with the old devil.  Perry Potter himself wouldn’t have the nerve.”