The old-mannish air had returned. She followed the Ranger's glance
over the edge of the Ridge into the Valley where the smoke-stacks of
the distant Smelter City belched inky clouds against an evening sky.

"Smelters need timber," Wayland waved his hand towards the pall of
smoke over the River. "Smelters need coal. These men plan to take
theirs free. Yet the law arrests a man for stealing a scuttle of coal
or a cord of wood. One law for the rich, another for the poor; and who
makes the law?"

They could see the Valley below encircled by the Rim-Rocks round as a
half-hoop, terra-cotta red in the sunset. Where the river leaped down
a white fume, stood the ranch houses--the Missionary's and her Father's
on the near side, the Senator's across the stream. Sounds of mouth
organs and concertinas and a wheezing gramaphone came from the Valley
where the Senator's cow-boys camped with drovers come up from Arizona.

"Dick," she asked, "exactly what is the Senator's brand?"

"Circle X."

"A circle with an X in it?"

The Ranger stubbornly permitted the suspicion of a smile.

"So if the cattle from Arizona have only a circle, all a new owner has
to do is put an X inside?"

"And pay for the cattle," amplified Wayland.