"Girt round with mine enemies, Miss Eleanor," he laughed, "and I slay
them with the jaw bone of an ass."

The white waist-coat chortled; and she laughed. This dragon didn't
spout flame but gentle ridicule, which was elusive as quicksilver
slipping through your fingers.

"The point is," explained the Ranger, coming forward, "the sheep have
almost grazed off up here; at least, far as we allow them to graze--"

"Besides, it's too cold for the lambs," effervesced the Missionary's
boy, bouncing out of the woods.

"Shut up, Fordie," ordered Williams, holding aloof.

"Mr. MacDonald and Mr. Williams want to transfer from this Divide to
the Mesas above the Rim Rocks," continued Wayland.

"Well, Mr. Forest Ranger, _that_ is _your_ business! The Rim Rocks are
National Forest, tho' to save my life, I have never seen _one_ tree on
those Mesas. What in the world they are in the National Forest for, I
don't know! You know very well I think there oughtn't to be any
National Forests--each State look after its own job. Have you issued
the grazing permits, Wayland? I don't see that it's _any_ of _my_
business."

The Senator had leisurely seated himself on the slab. Eleanor knew now
why he wielded such power in the Valley. He was human: he was the man
in the street: something with red blood giving and taking in a game of
win and lose among men. In a word, she had to acknowledge, the Dragon