our stand right. We're goin' to run sheep down in Grass Valley."

"Ahuh! Well, who's we?" queried Jean, curtly.

"What-at? . . . We--I mean the sheepmen rangin' this Rim from
Black Butte to the Apache country."

"Colter, I'm a stranger in Arizona," said Jean, slowly. I know little
about ranchers or sheepmen. It's true my father sent for me. It's
true, I dare say, that he bragged, for he was given to bluster an' blow.
An' he's old now. I can't help it if he bragged about me. But if he
has, an' if he's justified in his stand against you sheepmen, Im goin'
to do my best to live up to his brag. "

"I get your hunch. Shore we understand each other, an' thet's a
powerful help. You take my hunch to your old man," replied Colter,
as he turned his horse away toward the left. "Thet trail leadin'
south is yours. When you come to the Rim you'll see a bare spot down
in the Basin. Thet 'll be Grass Valley."

He rode away out of sight into the woods. Jean leaned against his
horse and pondered. It seemed difficult to be just to this Colter,
not because of his claims, but because of a subtle hostility that
emanated from him. Colter had the hard face, the masked intent,
the turn of speech that Jean had come to associate with dishonest men.
Even if Jean had not been prejudiced, if he had known nothing of his
father's trouble with these sheepmen, and if Colter had met him only
to exchange glances and greetings, still Jean would never have had a
favorable impression. Colter grated upon him, roused an antagonism
seldom felt.