"No, thanks, we've both et."
The newcomer dismounted and, undoing his tie rope, made his pony fast to a post. He was a short, thick set young chap, dressed in rough clothing, wearing hobnailed shoes. His clothes, his saddle, the horse itself belied the impression of a stock man and his shoes gave conclusive evidence that he was a miner. He turned to face Bayard and pushed his hat far back on his head, letting the sun beat down on his honest, bronzed face, peculiarly boyish, yet lined as that of a man who has known the rough edges of life.
"Mind if I talk to you a while, Bruce?" he asked, serious, preoccupied in his manner.
"Tickled to death, Benny; your conversation generally is enlightenin' an' interestin'."
This provoked only a faint flash of a smile from the other. Bayard kicked a wooden box along beside the building and both seated themselves on it. An interval of silence, which the miner broke by saying abruptly:
"I've done somethin', Bruce, that I don't like to keep to myself. I'm planning on doin' somethin' more that I want somebody to know so that if anything happens, folks'll understand.
"I come to you,"—marking the ground with the edge of his shoe sole, "because you're th' only man I know in this country—an' I know most of 'em—I'd trust."
"Them bouquets are elegant, Benny." Bayard laughed, trying to relieve the tension of the other. "Go ahead, I love 'em!"
"You know what I mean, Bruce. You've always played square with everybody 'round here, not mindin' a great deal about what other folks done so long as they was open an' honest about it. You've never stole calves, you've never been in trouble with your neighbors—"
"Hold on, Benny! You don't know how many calves I've stole."