In that last remark the worthy Jake had shown his hand. And the latter saw the smile, and his face darkened with swift-rising anger. But he had evidently made up his mind not to be drawn, for, with a curt “S’long,” he abruptly strode off, leaving the other to make his way to the bunkhouse.

The men had not yet come in for their evening meal, but he found Arizona disconsolately sitting on a roll of blankets just outside the door of the quarters. He was chewing steadily, with his face turned prairieward, gazing out over the tawny plains as though nothing else in the world mattered to him.

He looked up casually as Tresler came along, and edged along the blankets to make room, contenting himself with a laconic—

“Set.”

The two men sat in silence for some moments. The pale-faced cowpuncher seemed absorbed in deep reflection. Tresler was thinking too; he was thinking of Jake, whom he clearly understood was in love with his employer’s daughter. It was patent to the veriest simpleton. Not only that, but he felt that Diane herself knew it. The way the foreman had desisted from his murderous onslaught upon himself at her coming was sufficient evidence without the jealousy he had betrayed in his reference to tea-parties. Now he understood, too, that it was because the blind man was asleep, and in going up to the house he, Tresler, would only meet Diane, and probably spend a pleasant afternoon with her until her father awoke, that Jake’s unreasoning jealousy had been aroused, and he had endeavored to forcibly detain him. He felt glad that he had learned these things so soon. All such details would be useful.

At last Arizona turned from his impassive contemplation of the prairie.

“Wal?” he questioned. And he conveyed a world of interrogation in his monosyllable.

“Jake says I begin work to-morrow. To-night I sleep in the bunkhouse.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know?” Tresler looked around in astonishment.

“Guess Jake’s bin ’long. Say, I’ll shoot that feller, sure—’less some interferin’ cuss gits along an’ does him in fust.”

“What’s up? Anything fresh?”

For answer Arizona spat forcibly into the little pool of tobacco-juice on the ground before him. Then, with a vicious clenching of the teeth—

“He’s a swine.”

“Which is a libel on hogs,” observed the other, with a smile.

“Libel?” cried Arizona, his wild eyes rolling, and his lean nostrils dilating as his breath came short and quick. “Yes, grin; grin like a blazin’ six-foot ape. Mebbe y’ll change that grin later, when I tell you what he’s done.”

“Nothing he could do would surprise me after having met him.”

“No.” Arizona had calmed again. His volcanic nature was a study. Tresler, although he had only just met this man, liked him for his very wildness. “Say, pardner,” he went on quietly, reaching one long, lean hand toward him, “shake! I guess I owe you gratitood fer bluffin’ that hog. We see it all. Say, you’ve got grit.” And the fierce eyes looked into the other’s face.

Tresler shook the proffered hand heartily. “But what’s his latest achievement?” he asked, eager to learn the fresh development.

“He come along here ’bout you. Sed we wus to fix you up in pore Dave Steele’s bunk.”

“Yes? That’s good. I rather expected he’d have me sleep on the floor.”

Arizona gave a snort. His anger was rising again, but he checked it.

“Say,” he went on, “guess you don’t know a heap. Ther’ ain’t bin a feller slep in that bunk since Dave—went away.”

“Why?” Tresler’s interest was agog.

“Why?” Arizona’s voice rose. “’Cos it’s mussed all up wi’ a crazy man’s blood. A crazy man as wus killed right here, kind of, by Jake Harnach.”

“I heard something of it.”

“Heerd suthin’ of it? Wal, I guess ther’ ain’t a feller around this prairie as ain’t yelled hisself hoarse ’bout Dave.