"But what are you going to do when the Rocking R sells out?—you left that country quite a few times the last few years, and I notice you always go back like there was no other that suited you."
"I've got that fixed," says Clint gradually taking more heart in the new subject, and there he tried to describe some;—"you know abouts where that camp is where I used to break horses when I first started working for the Rocking R? it's where the outfit used to run their stock horses. Well, I bought that camp from Old Tom Jarvis,—that is, I talked him into selling it to me, and four thousand acres of the fine range around to go with it.
No remuda got by that Clint didn't ride thru.
"I'm thinking that this shipment I'm getting together now will be the last Old Tom'll ever buy, and by the time I get this train-load of Sonora Reds north and delivered to him, I'll have enough money to make the final payment on my place and still have enough left to buy a few head of cattle and start stocking it."
Clint often thought of his little place up in the heart of the cow country to the north. He could picture his own cattle ranging there and packing a brand of his on their slick hides,—he'd a long time hoped for the likes, and at last he was getting it. A couple more days now, and he'd be heading north again, and there to stay, this time.
The last day of the rodeo had come, and Clint was to start with his train load of stock that night. Him and his friend was setting in the lobby of the hotel that evening a talking and wondering when they'd be seeing one another again, when outside and by the telegraph pole, came the same old mouse colored horse and stopped not an inch from where the two men had seen him a couple of days before.