"It's a big country," Y.D. answered. "It's a plumb big country, for
sure, an' I guess a man can be a stranger in some corners of it, can't
he?"

Y.D. began to resent the other man's close scrutiny of his brand.

"Well, what's wrong with it?" he demanded.

"Oh, nothing. No offense. I just wondered what 'Y.D.' might stand for."

"Might stand for Yankee devil," said Y.D., with a none-of-your-business
curl of his lip. But he had carried his curtness too far, and was not
prepared for the quick retort.

"Might also stand for yellow dog, and be damned to you!" The stranger's
strong figure sat up stern and knit in his saddle.

Y.D.'s hand went to his hip, but the other man was unarmed. You can't
draw on a man who isn't armed.

"Listen!" the older man continued, in sharp, clear-cut notes. "You are
a stranger not only to our trails, but our customs. You are a young man.
Let me give you some advice. First--get rid of that artillery. It will
do you more harm than good. And second, when a stranger speaks to you
civilly, answer him the same. My name is Wilson--Frank Wilson, and if
you settle in the foothills you'll find me a decent neighbor, as soon as
you are able to appreciate decency."

To his own great surprise, Y.D. took his dressing down in silence. There
was a poise in Wilson's manner that enforced respect. He recognized in