A middle-aged man in wrinkled corduroys and a pinched-in white hat drove up to the fence.  “How’re they coming, Sam?” he asked of the foreman in charge.

“We’d ought to be movin’ by noon, Mr. West.”

“Fine.  I’ve decided to send Garrison in charge.  He can pick one of the boys to take along.  We can’t right well spare any of ’em now.  If I knew where to find a good man—­”

The lean Arizona-born youth slid from the fence on his prod-pole and stepped forward till he stood beside the buckboard of the cattleman.

“I’m the man you’re lookin’ for, Mr. West.”

The owner of the Fifty-Four Quarter Circle brand looked him over with keen eyes around which nets of little wrinkles spread.

“What man?” he asked.

“The one to help Mr. Garrison take the cattle to Denver.”

“Recommend yoreself, can you?” asked West with a hint of humor.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who are you?”

“Dave Sanders—­from Arizona, first off.”

“Been punchin’ long?”

“Since I was a kid.  Worked for the D Bar Lazy R last.”

“Ever go on a cattle train?”

“Twice—­to Kansas City.”

“Hmp!” That grunt told Dave just what the difficulty was.  It said, “I don’t know you.  Why should I trust you to help take a trainload of my cattle through?”

“You can wire to Mr. Crawford at Malapi and ask him about me,” the young fellow suggested.

“How long you ride for him?”

“Three years comin’ grass.”

“How do I knew you you’re the man you say you are?”

“One of yore boys knows me—­Bud Holway.”

West grunted again.  He knew Emerson Crawford well.  He was a level-headed cowman and his word was as good as his bond.  If Em said this young man was trustworthy, the shipper was willing to take a chance on him.  The honest eye, the open face, the straightforward manner of the youth recommended his ability and integrity.  The shipper was badly in need of a man.  He made up his mind to wire.

“Let you know later,” he said, and for the moment dropped Dave out of the conversation.

But before noon he sent for him.

“I’ve heard from Crawford,” he said, and mentioned terms.

“Whatever’s fair,” agreed Dave.

An hour later he was in the caboose of a cattle train rolling eastward.  He was second in command of a shipment consigned to the Denver Terminal Stockyards Company.  Most of them were shipped by the West Cattle Company.  An odd car was a jackpot bunch of pickups composed of various brands.  All the cars were packed to the door, as was the custom of those days.

After the train had settled down to the chant of the rails Garrison sent Dave on a tour of the cars.  The young man reported all well and returned to the caboose.  The train crew was playing poker for small stakes.  Garrison had joined them.  For a time Dave watched, then read a four-day-old newspaper through to the last advertisement.  The hum of the wheels made him drowsy.  He stretched out comfortably on the seat with his coat for a pillow.