“Of course,” he qualified as he stopped to light his pipe, “they ain’t what you could call angels, by a long shot.  If any one’s looking for anything like that, they won’t find it on a ranch.  Some pretty rough specimens drift out here from the East, who perhaps have had reasons for making a quick getaway.  But as long as a man does his work and does it right, we don’t ask any more about their past than they care to tell.  It ain’t etiquette out here to do that, and then too it sometimes leads to a man getting shot full of holes if he’s too curious.  Their language isn’t apt to be any too refined and their table manners leave a lot to be desired.  When pay day comes, most of their money goes to the saloons and dance halls in the towns.  They’re usually a pretty moody and useless bunch for a day or two after that.  But in the main they’re brave and square and friendly, and they sure do work hard for their forty-five a month and found.  And if you get into a scrap they’re a mighty handy lot of fellows to have at your back.”

By this time they had reached the bunk house.  As its name implied, it served as sleeping quarters for the men.  It was a long one-story building covering a large area of ground.  All one end of it was partitioned off into bunks to the number of thirty or more.  The other half was used as a dining and living room.  A long table, spread with oilcloth, extended down the center, with a row of chairs on either side.  The walls were decorated with gaudy lithographs, circus posters and colored sheets taken from the Sunday papers that occasionally drifted out that way.  On a side table were a number of well-thumbed magazines that Mrs. Melton had sent down for the men to read in their rare moments of leisure.  Saddles and harness and lariats were hung on nails driven into the logs.  Everything was rude and simple, but scrupulously clean.  The floor had been recently swept and the oilcloth on the table was shining.

In a little extension at the southern end of the shack the cook was clearing away the dishes from breakfast and making ready for the noon-day meal.  A couple of great dogs basked in the sunshine that streamed through the open door.  They jumped to their feet as their owner approached and capered about him joyously in a manner that bespoke their attachment.

A lank, muscular man at this moment came around a corner of the house.  His face was tanned to the color of mahogany and around his eyes were the tiny wrinkles that come to men accustomed to peer into the wide spaces.  He had on a pair of sheepskin trousers with the fleece still adhering, and his long legs had the slight crook that spoke of a life spent almost entirely in the saddle.  A buckskin shirt, a handkerchief knotted loosely around his neck and a broad slouch hat with a rattlesnake skin encircling it for a band completed his costume.  There was about him the air of a man accustomed to be obeyed, and yet there was no swagger or truculence in his bearing.  His glance was singularly fearless and direct, and the boys warmed to him at first sight.