"Joyce is the meanest of all the sheepmen who come through here," said Lance Fitch. "Never gives a homesteader a bit of mutton, and grabs every blade of grass in sight."
"That's how he got so rich," remarked Pete Mosher; "by hoggin' the pasture and stealin' homesteads. I bet he's never hired a herder that he didn't make at least one homestead off him."
"Can't something be done to stop him?" asked Harry. "Couldn't some one go and ask him for a job herding, and then, when Joyce tried to get him to file on a homestead, have him arrested and prove him guilty?"
"Say, you catch Joyce and we'll send you to the legislature," promised Robinson, with a laugh.
Harry stayed long enough to help wash the dishes; then, in spite of the family's vigorous remonstrances, she drove over to the ranch. The heat of the day came on before she reached home, and she was glad that she had started early. Although there was not a great deal for her to do on the homestead, she did not finish her various tasks until noon. Hot and hungry, she went up to the tent to get herself some luncheon and to look for the jar of salve. She had just started to build a fire when she heard a horse's tread outside, and thinking that it was Rob, flew to the doorway. But it was a stranger that faced her—a big man, with keen, friendly eyes and a low, drawling voice.
"Robert Holliday live here?" he asked.
"Yes," Harry answered, "this is his homestead, but he's not here now. I'm his sister. Is there any message you wish to leave?"
"Pleased to meet you; Miss Holliday. I'm the sheriff of Lincoln County—Mason is my name. I've got a bunch of horses down in Shoshone that I understand Mr. Holliday can tell me something about. Do you know when he'll be home?"
"No, I don't. To tell you the truth, he's over in Hailey now, in jail, on a false charge of having stolen one of those horses."