seat in the saddle, and he was long and lean. He wore a huge black
sombrero and a soiled red scarf. His vest was open and he was without
a coat.

The rider came trotting up and halted several paces from Jean

"Hullo, stranger! " he said, gruffly.

"Howdy yourself!" replied Jean. He felt an instinctive importance
in the meeting with the man. Never had sharper eyes flashed over
Jean and his outfit. He had a dust-colored, sun-burned face, long,
lean, and hard, a huge sandy mustache that hid his mouth, and eyes
of piercing light intensity. Not very much hard Western experience
had passed by this man, yet he was not old, measured by years.
When he dismounted Jean saw he was tall, even for an Arizonian.

"Seen your tracks back a ways," he said, as he slipped the bit to let
his horse drink. "Where bound?"

"Reckon I'm lost, all right," replied Jean. "New country for me."

"Shore. I seen thet from your tracks an' your last camp. Wal, where
was you headin' for before you got lost?"

The query was deliberately cool, with a dry, crisp ring. Jean felt
the lack of friendliness or kindliness in it.

"Grass Valley. My name's Isbel," he replied, shortly.

The rider attended to his drinking horse and presently rebridled him;