“Yes, that is a good suggestion,” he replied slowly.  “It’s liable to turn cold any time now, and as long as we’re going it may as well be before Winter sets in.”  He filled a stubby meerschaum pipe with tobacco, and put on cap and coat preparatory to going out of doors.  “I spoke to Rankin about the place the other day,” he added, “and he says he’ll take it and pay cash whenever I’m ready.  I’ll drive over and see him this morning.”

Rankin was not at home—­so Ma Graham told Scotty when he arrived—­and probably he wouldn’t return till afternoon; but Ben was around the barn somewhere, more than likely out among the broncos.  He usually was, when he had nothing else in particular to do.

Following her direction the Englishman loitered out toward the stock quarters, looked with interest into the big sheds where the haying machinery was kept, stopped to listen to the rush of water through the four-inch pipe of the artesian well, lit his pipe afresh, and moved on reflectively to the first of the great stock-yards that stretched beyond.  A tight board fence, ten feet high, built as a windbreak on two sides, obstructed his way; and he started to walk around it.  At the end the windbreak merged into a well-built fence of six wires, and, a wagon’s breadth between, a long row of haystacks, built as a further protection against the wind.  These, together with the wires, formed the third side of the yard.  Leaning on the latter, Scotty looked into the enclosure, at first carelessly, then with interest.  A moment later, without making his presence known, he stepped back to the hay, and, selecting a pile of convenient height, sat down in the sunshine to watch.

What he saw was a tall slim young man, in chaparejos and sombrero, the inevitable “repeater” at his hip, solitarily engaged in the process of breaking a bronco.  Ordinarily in this cattle-country the first time one of these wiry little ponies is ridden is on a holiday or a Sunday, whenever a company of spectators can be secured to assist or to applaud; but this was not Ben Blair’s way.  By nature solitary, whenever possible he did his work as he took his pleasure, unseen of men.  At present, as he went methodically about his business, he had no idea that a person save Ma Graham was within miles, or that anyone anywhere had the slightest interest in what he was doing.

“Yard One,” as the cowboys designated this corral, was the most used of any on the ranch.  Save for a single stout post set solidly in its centre, it was entirely clear, and under the feet of hundreds of cattle had been tramped firm as a pavement.  At present it contained a half-dozen horses, and one of these, a little mustang that was Ben’s particular pride, he was just saddling when Scotty appeared; the others, a wild-eyed, evil-looking lot, scattering meantime as far as the boundaries of the corral would permit.