“We’re not living in Paradise or Utopia,” assented Moyese.  “We can take care of our own.  Men who won’t listen to warning must look out for stronger arguments; and it’s a great deal quicker than carrying long-drawn legal cases up to the Supreme Court.  You sheepmen are asking us to take care of you.  I’m asking MacDonald to vote so he can take care of us.  Majority rules.  What I’m trying to get at is which side you are on!  We’re not taking care of neutrals and aliens—­”

“Aliens.”  The low tense voice bit into the word like acid.  “And I suppose you’re not taking care of pea-nut politicians either.  My ancestors have lived in this country since 1759.  Mr. Senator, how many generations have your people lived in this country?”

Eleanor became conscious that a question had been asked fraught with explosion; but the Senator smiled the big soft voiceless smile down in his waist-coat as if not one of the group knew that memories of the ghetto had not faded from his own generation.

“We’re not strong on ancestry out West,” he rubbed his whiskerless chin.  “It goes back too often to—­” he looked up quietly at MacDonald, “to bow and arrow aristocracy, scalps, in fact; but as for myself,” if a little oily, still the smile remained genial, “for myself, from what my name means in French, I should judge we were Hugenots—­what do you call ’em?—­Psalm singing lot that came over in that big boat, growing bigger every year; boat that brought all the true blues over here; Mayflower—­that’s what I’m trying to say—­all our ancestors came over in the Mayflower—­”

The sheep rancher’s thin lips slowly curled in a contemptuous smile.  “Then I guess my ancestors on one side of the house were chanting war whoops to welcome you—­”

Bat Brydges uttered a snort.  Eleanor puckered her brows as at news.  The Senator was fanning himself again with his hat.  Even Wayland was smiling.  He had heard political opponents of Moyese say that dynamite wouldn’t disturb the Senator.  “Only way you could raise him was yeast cake stamped with S:  two sticks through it.”

Certainly—­Eleanor was thinking—­there was some good in the worst of dragons.  St. George had put his foot on one ancient beast.  Wasn’t it possible to tame this one, to tame all modern dragons, put a bit in their mouths and harness them to good nation building?

“Girt round with mine enemies, Miss Eleanor,” he laughed, “and I slay them with the jaw bone of an ass.”

The white waist-coat chortled; and she laughed.  This dragon didn’t spout flame but gentle ridicule, which was elusive as quicksilver slipping through your fingers.

“The point is,” explained the Ranger, coming forward, “the sheep have almost grazed off up here; at least, far as we allow them to graze—­”

“Besides, it’s too cold for the lambs,” effervesced the Missionary’s boy, bouncing out of the woods.

“Shut up, Fordie,” ordered Williams, holding aloof.