They rode in silence for a time, following down the course of a broad valley, and presently came out onto the trail. A rider approached them at a walk, the low-hung white dust cloud in his wake marking the course of the long, hot trail. Bethune scrutinized the man intently. "Jack Pierce," he announced. "He runs a little yak outfit, a few head of horses, and some cattle over on Big Porcupine." A moment later Bethune drew up and greeted the rider with a great show of cordiality. "Hello, Pierce, old hand! How's everything over on Porcupine?"
The rancher returned the greeting with a curt nod, and a level stare: "Things on Porky's all right, I guess—so far."
"I hear old man Samuelson's sick?"
"How's he getting on?"
"Ain't heard. So long." He touched his horse with a quirt and the animal continued down the trail at a brisk trot.
"Surly devil," growled Bethune, as he gazed for a moment at the retreating horseman, and this time Patty was sure she detected the snake-like gleam in the black eyes. He dug his horse viciously with his spurs and jerked him in, dancing and fighting the bit. He laughed, shortly. "These little ranchers—bah!"
"Mr. Christie rode over to see Mr. Samuelson the other day. I met him at Thompson's."
"Oh, so you know the soul-puncher, do you? Makes a big play with his yellow chaps and six-gun. Suppose he had to be there to see that old Samuelson gets a ring-side seat if he happens to cash in."
"He said he was going over to see if there was anything he could do," answered the girl, ignoring the venom of the man's words.