Luck thoughtfully flicked the ash collar off his cigar. "It won't be any
use then to go out to the Flying U, I suppose," he observed tentatively,
his eyes keen for their changing expressions. "I may as well take the
next train out, I reckon, and drift on down into Arizona and New Mexico.
I know about where some real punchers range--but I thought there was no
harm in looking up the pedigree of this Flying U outfit. I'm sure some
obliged to you boys for heading me off." Back of his eyes there was a
laugh, but Andy Green and the Native Son were looking queerly at each
other and did not see it there.

"Oh, well, now you're this close, you wouldn't be losing anything by
going on out to the ranch, anyway," Andy recanted guardedly. "Come to
think of it, there's one regular old-time ranger out there. They call him
Slim. He's sure a devil on a horse--Slim is. I'd forgot about him when I
spoke. He's a ranger, all right."

Luck knew very well that Andy Green had used the word "ranger" with the
deliberate attempt to appear ignorant of the terminology of the range. A
cow-puncher comes a long way from being a ranger, as every one knows. A
ranger is a man of another profession entirely.

"It used to be a real cattle ranch, they tell me," added the Native Son
artfully. "We live out near there, and if you wanted to ride out--"

Luck appeared undecided. He sucked at his cigar, and he blew out the
smoke thoughtfully, and contemplated the toe of one neat, tan shoe. Just
plain acting, it was; just a playing of his part in the little game they
had started. Better than if they had boasted of their range knowledge and
their prowess in the saddle did Luck know that the dried little man had
told him the truth. He knew that at the Flying U he would find a remnant