A second glance assured Brite that it was not an Indian. Presently he headed the horse down into the Swale and disappeared among the trees. Brite expected this stranger to ride into camp. Strangers, unfortunately many of them undesirable, were common along the Chisholm Trail. This one emerged from the brush, having evidently crossed the stream farther above, and rode up, heading for the chuck-wagon. Before the rider stopped Brite answered to a presagement not at all rare in him—that there were meetings and meetings along the trail. This one was an event.

“Howdy, cook. Will yu give me a bite of grub before yu throw it oot?” the rider asked, in a youthful, resonant voice.

“Sho I will, boy. But Ise tellin’ yo nuthin’ ever gits throwed away wid dis chile cookin’. Jus’ yo git down an’ come in.”

Brite observed that the horse was not a mustang, but a larger and finer breed than the tough little Spanish species. Moreover, he was a magnificent animal, black as coal, clean-limbed and heavy-chested, with the head of a racer. His rider appeared to be a mere boy, who, when he wearily slid off, showed to be slight of stature, though evidently round and strong of limb. He sat down cross-legged with the pan of food Moze gave him. Brite strolled over with the hope that he might secure another trail driver.

“Howdy, cowboy. All alone?” he said, genially.

“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, looking up and as quickly looking down again. The act, however, gave Brite time to see a handsome face, tanned darkly gold, and big, dark, deep eyes that had a furtive, if not a hunted, look.

“Whar yu from?”

“Nowhere, I reckon.”

“Lone cowboy, eh? Wal, thet’s interestin’ to me. I’m short on riders. Do yu want a job? My name’s Brite an’ I’m drivin’ forty-five hundred haid north to Dodge. Ever do any trail drivin’?”

“No, sir. But I’ve rode cattle all my life.”

“Ahuh. Wal, thet cain’t be a very long while, son. Aboot how old air yu?”

“Sixteen. But I feel a hundred.”

“Whar’s yore home?”

“I haven’t any.”

“No? Wal, yu don’t say? Whar’s yore folks, then?”

“I haven’t any, Mr. Brite. …My dad an’ mom were killed by Indians when I was a kid.”

“Aw, too bad, son. Thet’s happened to so many Texas lads. …What yu been doin’ since?”

“Ridin’ from one ranch to another. I cain’t hold a job long.”

“Why not? Yu’re a likely-lookin’ youngster.”

“Reckon I don’t stand up good under the hardest ridin’. …An’ there’s other reasons.”

“How aboot hawse-wranglin’?”

“Thet’d suit me fine. …Would yu give me a job?”

“Wal, I don’t see why not.