Work and Sanderson had never disagreed. Indeed, Sanderson had always
been convinced that work and he had agreed too well in the past.
Except for the few brief holidays that are the inevitable portion of
the average puncher who is human enough to yearn for the relaxation of
a trip to "town" once or twice a year, Sanderson and work had been
inseparable for half a dozen years.

Sanderson's application had earned him the reputation of being
"reliable" and "trustworthy"--two terms that, in the lexicon of the
cow-country, were descriptive of virtues not at all common. In
Sanderson's case they were deserved--more, to them might have been
added another, "straight."

Sanderson's trip northeastward had resulted partly from a desire to
escape the monotony of old scenes and familiar faces; and partly
because one day while in "town" he had listened attentively to a desert
nomad, or "drifter," who had told a tale of a country where water was
to be the magic which would open the gates of fortune to the eager and
serious-minded.

"That country's goin' to blossom!" declared the Drifter. "An' the guy
which gets in on the ground floor is goin' to make a clean-up! They's
a range there--the Double A--which is right in the middle of things. A
guy named Bransford owns her--an' Bransford's on his last legs. He's
due to pass out _pronto_, or I'm a gopher! He's got a daughter
there--Mary--which is a pippin, an' no mistake! But she's sure got a
job on her hands, if the ol' man croaks.

"They's a boy, somewheres, which ain't no good I've heard, an' if the
girl hangs on she's due for an uphill climb. She'll have a fight on