head him off; is that it?"

"That's it. You guessed it first crack out of th' box. If nothin's wrong,
why we're all right; we're up this way to look after our strays. And if
somethin' is wrong, why we'll be in a position to correct it--that's all."

"I see." There was a smile on Dave's face as his cowboy partner, with a
wave of his hand, turned his horse into a different trail, speeding the
hardy little pony up so as to get ahead of Len Molick.

Dave rode slowly on, busy with many thoughts, some of which had to do with
the youth before him. Len Molick was about Dave's own age, that is
apparently, for, strange as it may seem, Dave was not certain of the exact
number of years that had passed over his head.

It was evident that he was about eighteen or nineteen. He had recently
felt a growing need of a razor, and the hair on his face was becoming
wiry. But once, when he asked Randolph Carson, about a birthday, the ranch
owner had returned an evasive answer.

"I don't know exactly when your birthday does come, Dave," he had said.
"Your mother, before she--before she died, kept track of that. In fact I
somtimes forget when my own is. I think yours is in May or June, but for
the life of me I can't say just which month. It doesn't make a lot of
difference, anyhow."

"No, Dad, not especially. But just how old am I?"

"Well, Dave, there you've got me again. I think it's around eighteen. But
your mother kept track of that, too. I never had the time. Put it down at