"Thirty miles."
Ferguson's eyelashes flickered. "Has Leviatt been here lately?" he questioned.
"Not since the day before yesterday."
"When you expectin' him back?"
"The boys'll be comin' back in a week. He'll likely come along with them."
"U—um. You're giving me a free hand?"
"Of course."
Ferguson lounged to the door. "I'm lookin' around a little," he said, "to kind of size up things. I don't want you to put me with the outfit. That strike you right?"
"I'm hirin' you to do a certain thing," returned Stafford. "I ain't tellin' you how it ought to be done. You've got till the fall roundup to do it."
Ferguson nodded. He went to the corral fence, unhitched his pony, and rode out on the plains toward the river. Stafford watched him until he was a mere dot on the horizon. Then he smiled with satisfaction.