"What you doin' at the Double A? You ought be herd-ridin' scholars in
a district schoolhouse."

"Missed my calling," grinned the other. "I got to know too much to
teach school, but didn't know enough to let John Barleycorn alone. I'm
a drifter, sort of. Been roaming around the north country. Struck the
basin about three weeks ago. Miss Bransford was needing men--her
father--yours, too, of course--having passed out rather sudden. I was
wanting work mighty had, and Miss Bransford took me on because I was
big enough to do the work of half a dozen men."

His face grew grave. Sanderson understood. Miss Bransford had hired
Owen out of pity. Sanderson did not answer.

The little man's face worked strangely, and his eyes glowed.

"If you hadn't come when you did, I would have earned my keep, and Alva
Dale would be where he wouldn't bother Miss Bransford any more," he
said.

Sanderson straightened. "You'd have shot him, you mean?"

Owen did not speak, merely nodding his head.

Sanderson smiled. "Then I'm sort of sorry come when I did. But do you
think shootin' Dale would have ended it?"

"No; Dale has friends." Owen leaned toward Sanderson, his face working
with passion. "I hate Dale," he said hoarsely. "I hate him worse than
I hate any snake that I ever saw. I hadn't been here two days when he