light of an immense oil lamp. Ranse laid a bundle of newspapers fresh
from town at his elbow.

"Back, Ranse?" said the old man, looking up.

"Son," old "Kiowa" continued, "I've been thinking all day about a
certain matter that we have talked about. I want you to tell me again.
I've lived for you. I've fought wolves and Indians and worse white
men to protect you. You never had any mother that you can remember.
I've taught you to shoot straight, ride hard, and live clean. Later
on I've worked to pile up dollars that'll be yours. You'll be a rich
man, Ranse, when my chunk goes out. I've made you. I've licked you
into shape like a leopard cat licks its cubs. You don't belong to
yourself--you've got to be a Truesdell first. Now, is there to be any
more nonsense about this Curtis girl?"

"I'll tell you once more," said Ranse, slowly. "As I am a Truesdell
and as you are my father, I'll never marry a Curtis."

"Good boy," said old "Kiowa." "You'd better go get some supper."

Ranse went to the kitchen at the rear of the house. Pedro, the Mexican
cook, sprang up to bring the food he was keeping warm in the stove.

"Just a cup of coffee, Pedro," he said, and drank it standing. And
then:

"There's a tramp on a cot in the wagon-shed. Take him something to
eat. Better make it enough for two."