rode across the mesa and down the mountain trail toward Jason. By
sundown that night he was in town, his horse fed, and he and Bondsman
sitting on the little hotel veranda, watching the villagers as they
passed in the dusk of early evening.

Coatless and perspiring, Bud betook himself next morning to the office
of the supervisor of that district of the Forest Service. Bondsman
accompanied him, stalking seriously at his master's heels. The
supervisor was busy. Bud filled a chair in the outer office, polished
his bald spot with a blue bandanna, and waited.

Presently the supervisor called him in. Bud rose heavily and plodded to
another chair in the private office. Torrance, the supervisor, knew Bud;
knew that he was a solid man in the finer sense of the word from the
shiny dome of his head to his dusty boot. And Torrance thought he knew
why Bud had called. The Airedale sat in the outer office, watching his
master. Occasionally the big dog rapped the floor with his stubby tail.

"He's just tellin' me to go ahead and say my piece, John, and that he'll
wait till I get through. That there dog bosses me around somethin'
scandalous."

"He's getting old and set in his ways," laughed Torrance.

"So be I, John. Kind of settin' in my own way mostly."

"Well, Bud, how are things up on the mesa?"

"Growin' and bloomin' and singin' and feedin' and keepin' still, same as
always."