Busied with these reflections, she noticed the familiar figure of Dextry wandering aimlessly.  He was not unkempt, and yet his air gave her the impression of prolonged sleeplessness.  Spying her, he approached and seated himself in the sand against the boat, while at her greeting he broke into talk as if he was needful only of her friendly presence to stir his confidential chords into active vibration.

“We’re in turrible shape, miss,” he said.  “Our claim’s jumped.  Somebody run in and talked the boy out of it while I was gone, and now we can’t get ’em off.  He’s been tryin’ this here new law game that you-all brought in this summer.  I’ve been drunk—­that’s what makes me look so ornery.”

He said the last, not in the spirit of apology, for rarely does your frontiersman consider that his self-indulgences require palliation, but rather after the manner of one purveying news of mild interest, as he would inform you that his surcingle had broken or that he had witnessed a lynching.

“What made them jump your claim?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t know nothin’ about it, because, as I remarked previous, I ‘ain’t follered the totterin’ footsteps of the law none too close.  Nor do I intend to.  I simply draws out of the game fer a spell, and lets the youngster have his fling; then if he can’t make good, I’ll take the cards and finish it for him.

“It’s like the time I was ranchin’ with an Englishman up in Montana.  This here party claimed the misfortune of bein’ a younger son, whatever that is, and is grubstaked to a ranch by his people back home.  Havin’ acquired an intimate knowledge of the West by readin’ Bret Harte, and havin’ assim’lated the secrets of ranchin’ by correspondence school, he is fitted, ample, to teach us natives a thing or two—­and he does it.  I am workin’ his outfit as foreman, and it don’t take long to show me that he’s a good-hearted feller, in spite of his ridin’-bloomers an’ pinochle eye-glass.  He ain’t never had no actual experience, but he’s got a Henry Thompson Seton book that tells him all about everything from field-mice to gorrillys.

“We’re troubled a heap with coyotes them days, and finally this party sends home for some Rooshian wolf-hounds.  I’m fer pizenin’ a sheep carcass, but he says: 

“’No, no, me deah man; that’s not sportsman-like; we’ll hunt ’em.  Ay, hunt ’em!  Only fawncy the sport we’ll have, ridin’ to hounds!’

“‘We will not,’ says I.  ‘I ain’t goin’ to do no Simon Legree stunts.  It ain’t man’s size.  Bein’ English, you don’t count, but I’m growed up.’

“Nothin’ would do him but those Uncle Tom’s Cabin dogs, however, and he had ’em imported clean from Berkshire or Sibeery or thereabouts, four of ’em, great, big, blue ones.  They was as handsome and imposin’ as a set of solid-gold teeth, but somehow they didn’t seem to savvy our play none.  One day the cook rolled a rain bar’l down-hill from the kitchen, and when them blooded critters saw it comin’ they throwed down their tails and tore out like rabbits.  After that I couldn’t see no good in ’em with a spy-glass.