style="font-size:15px;"> “Now, you are trying to tease me,” she answered, “that young fellow you speak of, his name is George Burk, and you know I don’t care for him.”
“Sis, you’re hard to suit, maybe you can find some one in the West to marry.”
“I don’t know, Jack, just now I’m not worrying about getting married. I hope you like it out there and make good. Mother told me that father wrote to the man who owns the ranch about your coming, and also wired him. Wish I were going with you now,” she added wistfully.
“Never mind, sis, it won’t be long before I’ll send for you and mother. Be a good girl now, and help me pack.”
Going into the house, they were soon busy packing and thinking of the future.
The next morning Mason bid his parents goodbye and started on his trip West.
After long and tiresome travel on hot and dusty trains Mason alighted at a small station on the Union & Pacific where he was to take the stage that met all trains for Trader’s Post. Walking around the small platform of the depot he spied a dilapidated stage and a scraggy looking pair of horses. The driver was busily engaged filling a black clay pipe while talking with the telegraph operator. “Starting soon?” queried Mason pleasantly. The driver turned and looking Mason over, drawled:
“Thought I was going back empty, train stopped to let off some mail, but I didn’t see you get off. Be you the man the Bar X boys are expecting?”
“Guess I am,” said Mason, smiling.
“The boys are at the Grand Hotel,” explained the driver. “Jump in, we’ll be there in about an hour.”
“It’s four miles to the Post,” he added.
It was seven A. M. and Mason was anxious to get started on the long ride to the ranch. The driver kept up a running fire of talk as the stage rattled over the rough road.
“Yep,” he was saying, “old man Walters sent two men with a shipment of cattle to the Post. They have been there two days now, and one of them is hitting up old John Barleycorn right hard.”
Having delivered this bit of news he started the team at a faster pace.
“What sort of men are they at the ranch?” queried Mason. “Does Walters allow them to drink?”
The driver shook his head.
“No, he don’t allow them to drink on the ranch, but the assistant foreman sent Scotty Campbell and Red Sullivan to meet you and Scotty had to celebrate, but a better pair of cow punchers never stepped in boots. Let me tell you one thing, young fellow.”
The driver leaned over confidentially.
“If those punchers take to you, you will have two good friends.”
They were now in sight of the town, and Mason looked it over with interest.
Trader’s Post boasted of one hotel and dance hall, a general store, and a few scattered houses. As they drew near the hotel they heard a succession of whoops that would have put an Indian to shame. Mason looked at the driver inquiringly.
“That’s Scotty,” he explained.
“Well, he’s got a good pair of lungs,” laughed Mason.
The driver tied his team and Mason followed him into the hotel. As they entered, two men at the bar turned and looked Mason over. One, a good-natured looking Irishman, seemed satisfied and asked: “Are you the man that’s going to Bar X ranch?”
“Yes,” he replied, offering his hand. “I’m Jack Mason.”
Red shook hands and roared:
“Scotty, shake hands with our new recruit.”
Scotty looked Mason over from head to foot.
“Glad to meet you, laddie,” he said slowly, as he lurched heavily against the bar. “Don’t mind me, I had to have a little fun, don’t come to the Post very often.”
Red was grinning from ear to ear.
“If you don’t get called down by Miss Josephine when we get back to the ranch, I’ll buy you the best horse on the range.”
Scotty turned and looked at Mason.
“Laddie, don’t pay any attention to Red, let’s all have a drink on me.”
“I’m not drinking, Scotty, but I’ll take a cigar with you.”
“Well, Jack, we start in half an hour,” announced Red. “I’ll strap your luggage on my horse and send the supply wagon after the rest of your stuff.”
Going out on the hotel porch, Mason watched the scene with interest.
Scotty was leading two tough and wiry looking horses. He appeared so unsteady on his feet that Red started to help him.
“Steady there!” he called out sharply.
Scotty stiffened and glared at him.
“Don’t think I’m all in,” he growled, frowning at his partner.
With a flying leap he was in the saddle and dashed up to Mason leading a spare horse.
“What kind of a horseman are you, laddie?” he asked.
“Well, I never took any medals for fancy riding,” he confessed.
Scotty grinned. “We have a nice little ride ahead of us,” he said, as he turned and watched Red coming up.
Mason mounted his horse and the party started. Scotty was leading and singing snatches of Scotch songs. Mason lapsed into a moody silence and Red looked at him curiously as they rode along. The Easterner was thinking of the girl Red had mentioned and wondered if she was the girl his father had spoken of. Turning to Red he asked:
“Who is this Miss Josephine you spoke to Scotty about?”
“That’s old man Walters’ girl,” answered Red, as he rode his mount closer to Mason’s horse.
“She’s the idol of the ranch,” he continued, “and the boys would fight for her at the drop of the hat. With the exception of one or two,” he added with an oath.
“How’s that?” queried Mason in surprise.
“Well,” grumbled Red, “there’s two cursed onery punchers on our range that I don’t trust no more then I would a rattlesnake.”
Mason glancing ahead, noticed that Scotty had pulled his horse in and was listening with jaws tightly set. “Red, why don’t Walters get rid of these men?” queried the Easterner, coming back to the subject.
“Oh, they are good men on the range, and the old man hates to let them go,” replied Red with a vicious look. “Ain’t I right, Scotty?”
“Good, hell,” the Scot snarled, “if I had my way I would have cleaned up for them long ago.”
“Well,” declared Red with a grin, “he’s
