"And then another question," said Mr. Irwin, easing his huge form into a more comfortable position and smiling genially; "just let us suppose, for instance, that I have—er—er—well, a suspicious nature: then I might be justified in thinking, perhaps, that your parents wouldn't approve—er—er"—his deep laugh boomed forth again—"have you anything to show me?"
"Oh, yes," laughed Dick, "lots of letters."
"And that stout chap over there," put in Sam, "is our historian, poet and artist. Speak for yourself, Dave. He's writing a great volume about our travels—subscriptions taken now."
"You can put my name down if you'll agree to send the book out here by mail," laughed the ranchman. "Letters from your father, eh? Your name is Bob, I believe?" He glanced over them quickly. "Oh, it's all right; I thought it would be. Well, come out to the corral, boys."
From a rear door of the ranch-house he led the way toward a long line of barns, and, passing these, they saw ahead a rambling collection of sheds and solidly-built corrals.
To their left, an undulating farm meadow was covered with thousands of towering yellow haystacks extending off until they formed an apparently solid line against the gray hills beyond.
"An important part of the cattleman's business," explained Mr. Irwin, noticing the boys' interest. "This is for the winter feeding."
"Don't you ever graze your herds on government land?" asked Tim.
"Formerly I did, by paying so much per head; but now I prefer to have the stock behind my own wire fences. It required the services of many men to keep them within the proper limits. The sheepmen, of course, have the advantage there, for even large flocks are easy to manage."
"And the sheep-raisers and cattlemen used to have fierce scraps for the range, didn't they?" said Sam Randall.