cheat the pony. Together they lifted their heads and looked at Johnny.
The Mexican boy smiled, white-toothed, while deep pools of eyes regarded
Johnny soberly.

"She's damn hot to-day, señor," he said. "Thank you for the so good water
to drink."

"That's all right. Help yourself," Johnny said languidly. "Had your
dinner?"

"Not this day. I'm come from Tucker Bly, his rancho. I ride to see if
horses feed quiet."

"Well, come in and eat. I cooked some peaches this morning."

The youth went eagerly, his somewhat stilted English easing off into a
mixture of good American slang and the Mexican dialect spoken by peons
and some a grade higher up the ladder. He was not more than seventeen,
and while Johnny recalled his instructions to put any greaser on the run,
he took the liberty of interpreting those instructions to please himself.
This kid was harmless enough. He talked the range gossip that proved to
Johnny's satisfaction that he was what he professed to be--a young rider
for Tucker Bly, who owned the "Forty-Seven" brand that ranged just east
of the Rolling R. Johnny had never seen this Tomaso--plain Tom, he called
him presently--but he knew Tucker Bly; and a few leading questions served
to set at rest any incipient suspicions Johnny may have had.

They were doing the same work, he and Tomaso. The only difference was
that Johnny camped alone, and Tomaso rode out from the Forty-Seven ranch
every day, taking whatever direction Tucker Bly might choose for him. But