"I guess he knows all right who he is," mused Dave. "No worrying about his father and mother or about his future. As for me, I don't know whether I'm a rag-picker's son, or whether I came from a millionaire's family."
Yet, as he thought it over more soberly, Dave could not help thinking that he must have had as parents persons in that broad, and altogether desirable, middle class.
"If they were millionaires they would hardly have been living in a small Missouri town," reasoned the young cowboy, "and if I came from rag-picker ancestors I'd have had on such ragged clothes that Mr. Carson would have noticed that and spoken of it. And that reminds me. I must ask him about the clothing I wore, and about how old I was. Maybe he kept the garments, and they might form a clew. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll ask Mr. Carson about it."
To himself Dave always thought of the ranchman as "Mr. Carson," though when he spoke he called him "Dad," for he did not want strangers to surmise concerning the secret, nor did he wish to hurt the man who had been a father to him.
"Anything wrong?" Inquired Mr. Bellmore, as they cantered along.
"Wrong? No. Why?" asked Dave, looking up suddenly.
"Why you're as glum as an owl, and as silent as one of these prairie dogs," went on the engineer. "You haven't said a word for over a mile. Is something troubling you?"
"Yes—that is, no!" exclaimed Dave. "I was—just thinking."
"Oh, I could see that," returned the other with a laugh. "Well, if it's anything about this water business, don't worry. Molick and his crowd may bother your father for a time, but Bar U ranch will win out—I'm sure of it!"
"I hope so," murmured Dave. "They're a mean crowd, though," and he thought of the cowardly taunt of Len Molick—the taunt which had first given him the clew to his lack of identity.