Picked up half-starving on the mesa road, near St. Johns, he had been brought to the ranch by Pat, where a month of clean air and industry had reshaped the tramp to something like a man. Both Pat and Waring knew that the hobo was wanted in Stacey. They had agreed to say nothing about the tramp's whereabouts just so long as he made himself useful about the ranch. They would give him a chance. But, familiar with his kind, they were mildly skeptical as to Waco's sincerity of purpose. If he took to drinking, or if Buck Hardy heard of his whereabouts, he would have to go. Meanwhile, he earned his keep. He was a good cook, and a good cook, no matter where or where from, is a power in the land.
As Waco closed the oven door some one hallooed. Pat stepped to the veranda. A cowboy astride a bay pony asked if Waring were around.
"I can take your message," said Pat.
"Well, it's for you, I guess. Letter from Buck Hardy."
"Yes, it's for me," said Pat. "Who sent you?"
"Hardy. Said something about you had a man down here he wanted."
"All right. Stay for chuck?"
"I got to git back. How's things down this way?"
"Running on time. Just tell Buck I'll be over right soon."
"To-day?"