"The Gallegher brat," thought the widow, but said not a word.
"I had hoped to run across you people down here, but scarcely so soon," he went on. "I've just driven in."
So he was aware of the fact that he was on the edge of the Rafter A range, thought Ethel. And he had hoped to run across them! If this stranger was what Tom Fitzrapp suspected, certainly he was brazen enough.
She decided further probe would be advisable. "Do you expect to camp here long?" she asked.
Childress smiled at her over the improvised gate. "I'm not camping, Mrs. Andress, though it may look that way. This is my ranch—six hundred and forty acres—so long as I keep my contract with the railroad, and I reckon I'll be able to keep it unless the bottom falls out of the horse market."
Her eyes widened with surprise at this statement. "You're going to become a Canadian?"
Childress could not tell her that he was Canadian born, any more than he could explain his lack of uniform. He was there in the Fire Weed country particularly to solve her losses of stock, although other breeders had lost in lesser degree. She was the sort of woman to whom a real man does not care to lie. There was a "white" way out.
"Possibly I can make a go of this proposition," he answered, ignoring the question of nationality. "You've heard of the rolling stone and its lack of moss. Well, I've proven to my own satisfaction that there is truth in the adage. At least temporarily, I've quit hitting strange trails."
Looking across the canvas into the corral, Ethel noticed that the other man who was short and stout and wore a bristling red mustache, had unsaddled the roan and was in the act of crawling under the improvised fence on the opposite side.
"Who's that?" she asked with a gesture a trifle disdainful.