The floor of the large room, covered with fur rugs and huge buffalo-skins, was made of pounded clay, and the feet of many years had hardened it to almost stone-like solidity.

Saddles, lariats, rifles, high boots, and all the trappings and harness belonging to a cowboy’s outfit littered the place, and stretched out on the robes and furs, in easy, careless attitudes, lay some half-dozen men.

Jim Cummings and Dan Moriarity were of the number.  Thick clouds of tobacco smoke curled and eddied to the low ceiling, and seated near the fire to get the benefit of the light were a couple of card-playing ranchmen, indulging in a game of California Jack.

Standing with his back to the blaze, his feet spread apart, and his hands deep in his pockets, stood the owner of the ranche—­Swanson.  Cast in a Herculean mold, he stood over six feet tall, his broad shoulders surmounted by a neck like a bull, and his red, cunning face, almost hid from sight by the thick, bushy whiskers which covered it.

He had been relating, with great gusto, some adventure in which he had played a prominent part, and raising his broad hand in the air he brought it down on a table near him, as he exclaimed: 

“And if any detective comes skulking around this shanty, I swear I’ll cut out his sneaking heart, and make him eat it raw”—­when the sound of horses broke the thread of his discourse, and a voice was heard shouting: 

“Hello-o-o, the house!”

“Yes, an be right smart about it, dis chile most froze.”

A young fellow near the door sprang to open it, and thrusting his head out, said: 

“Come in, there’s no dogs around.”

“Dats all right, honey, we ain’t got no fear of de hounds, me an’ the Doctor ain’t.”

“Keep quiet, you black imp,” said the voice which had first been heard, “Hobble the nags and bring in my saddle, boys.”

“All right, sah; I’s hearin’ you, sah.”

To this conversation, which had taken place outside, the men in the room had listened with great interest.  Anything was welcome that served to break the monotony of ranche life, and a stir of expectation went through the room as the two strangers were heard dismounting.

The door opened and the new-comers entered.

“By the great horn spoon if this ain’t the old hoss doctor hisself!” exclaimed Swanson, as he reached out his huge paw.  “I thought the Apaches had lifted your scalp years ago.”

“You can’t kill a good hoss doctor, Swanson,” replied the Doctor, grasping the offered hand and giving it a hearty shake.  “Good hoss doctors don’t grow on every bush.”

“Boys,” said Swanson, turning the Doctor around.  “This hyar gentleman is Doctor Skinner—­”

“Late graduate of the Philadelphia Veterinary Surgical Institute.  Has practised in seventeen States and four Territories.  Can cure anything on hoofs, from the devil to the five-legged broncho of Arizona, which has four legs, one on each corner, and one attached to his left flank.  With it, he can travel faster than the swiftest race horse, and when hunted by the native red men, he throws it over his neck, and smiles urbanely upon his baffled pursuers.”