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"I used to be a puncher myse'f," he explained. "I tell you it

feels good to grip a saddle between your knees, and to swallow

the dust and hear the bellow of the cows. I used to live in them

days. I sure did."

A boyish puncher galloped past with a whoop and waved his hat to

Arlie. For two weeks he had been in the saddle for fourteen hours

out of the twenty-four. He was grimy with dust, and hollow-eyed

from want of sleep. A stubbly beard covered his brick-baked face.

But the unquenchable gayety of the youthful West could not be

extinguished. Though his flannel shirt gaped where the thorns had

torn it, and the polka-dot bandanna round his throat was

discolored with sweat, he was as blithely debonair as ever.

"That's Dick France. He's a great friend of mine," Arlie

explained.

"Dick's in luck," Fraser commented, but whether because he was

enjoying himself so thoroughly or because he was her friend the

ranger did not explain.