“Mr. Dawson,” said Mr. Ramsey, “this is your new patrolman, Scott Burton.”
“Very glad to meet you,” said Mr. Dawson warmly, but he could not waste much attention on a new patrolman when he had sighted the supervisor’s new horse. “How in thunder did you get that horse, John?” he asked curiously.
“Burton bought him from Jed Clark this morning and I borrowed him this afternoon. Isn’t he a dandy?”
“Didn’t suppose Jed would sell him at any price,” said Dawson looking enviously at the big black, “and I did not suppose that any one could ride him if he did.”
“No one else supposed so either ’til Burton rode him this morning with a fingernail saddle. Jed was pretty sore because he did not break his neck and you’ll have to keep an eye out to see that he does not slip anything over on Burton to get even.”
Dawson looked Scott over again with increased interest and it seemed to Scott that his expression was harder than ever.
“You must be some rider,” Dawson finally remarked.
“Get your horse, Dawson,” Mr. Ramsey interrupted, “and we’ll take Burton down to his new quarters.”
They took a trail back along the ridge and soon dropped down into the head of a cañon on the slope opposite the ranger cabin, to the shack which was to be Scott’s home through some of the most eventful months of his life. It was a rough board building with battened cracks, plain but neat. It contained only two bunks, a table, two chairs and a cook stove, but it commanded a beautiful view of the lower slopes and the valley beyond. It was just such a place as Scott had often pictured as an ideal camp.
“I told Heth to be here by three,” said Dawson, looking impatiently at his watch. It was four-thirty.