“Not much. They say he’s an able rancher but has had a run of hard luck.”
“The fellow we talked to said he’s a square shooter,” Ken contributed. “Peculiar, though—the lone-wolf type. His exact words were: ‘If Warner likes you, he’ll give you the shirt off his back. If he doesn’t, watch out! He judges a man fast, and once an opinion is formed, he doesn’t change his mind.’”
“Let’s hope he takes a liking to us,” Mr. Livingston remarked. “Not that it matters. We’ll give him the map and be on our way.”
The car made slow time on the winding dirt road. However, the way was scenic, if dusty. Rugged, snow-tipped mountains rimmed the valley. Their high peaks were circled with lazy, fleecy clouds.
The hot sun was high overhead when the car wound along a stream of fast-running water and emerged into a clearing.
A short distance ahead the Scouts saw a long log cabin, a barn, and a fenced area.
“Cloud Crest Ranch,” Jack read on the gatepost.
He jumped out to unbar the gate so that the car could pass through. Carefully, he closed it again before they drove on to the ranch house.
The car’s approach was evidently noted from the building for, as the Scouts alighted in front of the ranch building, a man who was nearly six feet tall, lean and muscular, came out the door.
At first glance they took him to be in his thirties, but as he came closer they saw the shock of gray hair and the lines on his face which made him seem to be in his fifties.