"Mebbe he was follerin' a wagon, an' got lost," Buck Higgins suggested
hopefully.

"Wagon nothin'!" snorted Bill. "Nobody in these parts'd have a dog like
that, an' if they did, what would he be doin' follerin' a wagon? He
ain't built to run, he's built to fight."

Where the dog had come from was something of a mystery. Neighbors were
not near by, in those days, in Montana, the nearest being fourteen miles
off, and the railway twenty-two, and nothing there but a water tank.
There was some discussion regarding the matter which ended in a
deadlock. It was certain that none of the ranchmen in the vicinity owned
such a dog, and even so, or if a visitor owned him, how would he get to
the Bar O? Walk, with "them legs"?

While the discussion went on, the subject of it gulped down large chunks
of beef which Whitey had begged from the cook, and after that he went
with the men and boys to the ranch house, where, with an apologetic
leer, and a wiggle of his tail, he stretched himself on the veranda, and
fell into a deep sleep. He was very grateful, but he was also very
tired.

In a lonely ranch house matters are of concern which would create little
comment in a city. This dog's coming was in the nature of an event at
the Bar O. Bill, the foreman, and all the punchers were ready to neglect
work for a considerable time and talk about it. Even Injun occasionally
looked interested. But all the talk could not solve the problem of the
animal's presence.

The only one who knew lay sleeping on the veranda and couldn't tell. It