“Well,” he said, “I certainly want the bull, but you seem to understand.  Leave it at that; I’m offering to treat you pretty liberally.”

“So as to prevent my assisting Flett in any way or taking a part in Hardie’s campaign?”

“I wouldn’t consider it the square thing for you to do,” Beamish returned quietly.

George thought of the man who was waiting at the homestead for the team.  It was obvious that an attempt was being made to buy him, and he strongly resented it.

“Then I can only tell you that I won’t make this deal.  That’s the end of the matter.”

Beamish nodded and started his horse, but he looked back as he rode off.

“Well,” he called, in a meaning tone, “you may be sorry.”

George rode on to Grant’s homestead, and finding him at work in the fallow, told him what had passed.

“I fail to see why they’re so eager to get hold of me,” he concluded.

Grant, sitting in the saddle of the big plow, thoughtfully filled his pipe.

“Of course,” he said, “it wasn’t a coincidence that Beamish came over soon after the fellow turned up for the horses.  It would have been worth while buying the bull if you had let them go—­especially as I believe it’s right about a friend of his wanting one—­and nobody could have blamed you for selling.  The fact is, your position counts.  The bluff would make a handy place for a depot, and, while there’s nobody else near, you command the trails to it and the reservation.  Nobody could get by from the settlement without being seen, unless they made a big round, if you watched out.”

“I’m beginning to understand.  What you say implies that they’re doing a good trade.”

“That’s so,” Grant assented.  “I wouldn’t have believed it was so big before Hardie put me on the track and I began to look around.  But you want to remember that what you’re doing may cost you something.  I’m your nearest neighbor, you’re running stock that are often out of sight, and you’re up against a determined crowd.”

“It’s true,” George admitted.  “Still, I can’t back out.”

Grant cast a keen, approving glance at him.  George sat quietly in his saddle with a smile on his brown face; his pose was easy but virile:  there was a stamp of refinement and old country breeding upon him.  His eyes were suggestively steady; his skin was clear; he looked forceful in an unemphatic manner.  The farmer was to some extent prejudiced against the type, but he could make exceptions.  He had liked Lansing from the beginning, and he knew that he could work.

“No,” he said; “I guess you’re not that kind of man.  But won’t you get down and go along to the house?  Flora will be glad to talk with you, and I’ll be in for supper soon.”

George thanked him, and did as he suggested.  He was beginning to find pleasure in the conversation of Flora Grant.

It was two hours later when he took his leave and the farmer went out with him.