mountainward.

The heifers drowsed lazily in the brown grass. Y.D., shading his eyes
the better with his hand, gazed long and thoughtfully at the purple
range. Then he spat decisively over his horse's shoulder and made a
strange "cluck" in his throat. The knowing animal at once set out on
a trot to stir the lazy heifers into movement, and presently they were
trailing slowly up into the foothill country.

Far up, where the trail ahead apparently dropped over the end of the
world, a horse and rider hove in view. They came on leisurely, and half
an hour elapsed before they met the rancher trailing west.

The stranger was a rancher of fifty, wind-whipped and weather-beaten of
countenance. The iron grey of his hair and moustache suggested the iron
of the man himself; iron of figure, of muscle, of will.

"'Day," he said, affably, coming to a halt a few feet from Y.D.
"Trailing into the foothills?"

Y.D. lolled in his saddle. His attitude did not invite conversation,
and, on the other hand, intimated no desire to avoid it.

"Maybe," he said, noncommittally. Then, relaxing somewhat,--"Any water
farther up?"

"About eight miles. Sundown should see you there, and there's a decent
spot to camp. You're a stranger here?" The older man was evidently
puzzling over the big "Y.D." branded on the ribs of the little herd.