the ankle. Her brother had gone away an hour before.
"I'm thankin' you, ma'am," Ferguson said as he stood for a moment at the door. "I reckon I'd have had a bad time if it hadn't been for you."
"It was nothing," she returned.
He had hesitated—he still felt the thrill of doubt that had assailed him before he had taken the step that he knew was impertinent. "I'll be ridin' over here again, some day, if you don't mind," he said.
Her face reddened a trifle. "I'm sure brother would like to have you," she replied.
"I don't remember to have said that I was comin' over to see your brother," was his reply.
"But it would have to be he," she said, looking straight at him. "You couldn't come to see me unless I asked you."
And now he had spoken a certain word that had been troubling him. "Do you reckon that Two Diamond range boss comes over to see your brother?"
She frowned. "Of course!" she replied. "He is my brother's friend. But I—I despise him!"
Ferguson grinned broadly. "Well, now," he said, unable to keep his pleasure over her evident dislike of the Two Diamond man from showing in his eyes and voice, "that's cert'nly too bad. An' to think he's wastin' his time—ridin' over here."
She gazed at him with steady, unwavering eyes. He could still remember the challenge in them. "Be careful that you don't waste your time!" was her answer.
"I reckon I won't," was his reply, as he climbed into the saddle. "But I won't be comin' over here to see your brother!"
"Oh, dear!" she said, "I call that very brazen!"
But when he had spurred his pony down through the crossing of the river he had turned to glance back at her. And he had seen a smile on her face. As he rode now he went over this conversation many times, much pleased with his own boldness; more pleased because she had not seemed angry with him.
It was late in the morning when he caught sight of the Two Diamond ranch buildings, scattered over a great basin through which the river flowed. Half an hour later he rode up to the ranchhouse and met Stafford at the door of the office. The manager waved him inside.
"I'm two days late," said Ferguson, after he had taken a chair in the office. He related to Stafford the attack by the rattler. The latter showed some concern over the injury.
"I reckon you didn't do your own doctorin'?" he asked.
Ferguson told him of the girl. The manager's lips straightened. A grim humor shone from his eyes.
"You stayed there over night?" he questioned.
"I reckon I stayed there. It was in a cabin down at a place which I heard the girl say was called 'Bear Flat.' I didn't ketch the name of the man."
Stafford grinned coldly. "I reckon they didn't know what you was comin' over here for?"
"I didn't advertise," returned Ferguson quietly.
"If you had," declared Stafford, his eyes glinting with a cold amusement, "you would have found things plum lively. The man's name is Ben Radford. He's the man I'm hirin' you to put out of business!"
For all Stafford could see Ferguson did not move a muscle. Yet the news had shocked him; he could feel the blood surging rapidly through his veins. But the expression of his face was inscrutable.
"Well, now," he said, "that sure would have made things interestin'. An' so that's the man you think has been stealin' your cattle?" He looked steadily at the manager. "But I told you before that I wasn't doin' any shootin'."
"Correct," agreed the manager. "What I want you to do is to prove that Radford's the man. We can't do anything until we prove that he's been rustlin'. An' then——" He smiled grimly.
"You reckon to know the girl's name too?" inquired Ferguson.
"It's Mary," stated the manager. "I've heard Leviatt talk about her."
Ferguson contemplated the manager gravely. "An' you ain't sure that Radford's stealin' your cattle?"
Stafford filled and lighted his pipe. "I'm takin' Dave Leviatt's word for it," he said.
"Who's Leviatt?" queried Ferguson.
"My range boss," returned Stafford.
"He's been ridin' sign on Radford an' says he's responsible for all the stock that we've been missin' in the last six months."
Ferguson rolled a cigarette. He lighted it and puffed for a moment in silence, the manager watching him.
"Back at Dry Bottom," said Ferguson presently, "there was a man shootin' at a can when I struck town. He put five bullets through the can. Was that your range boss?"
Stafford smiled. "That was Leviatt—my range boss," he returned. "We went over to Dry Bottom to get a gunfighter. We wanted a man who could shoot plum quick. He'd have to be quick, for Radford's lightnin' with a six. Leviatt said shootin' at a can would be a good way to find a man who could take Radford's measure—in case it was necessary," he added quickly.
Ferguson's face was a mask of immobility. "Where's Leviatt now?" he questioned.
"Up the Ute with the outfit."
"How far up?"
"Thirty miles."
Ferguson's eyelashes flickered. "Has Leviatt been here lately?" he questioned.
"Not since the day before yesterday."
"When you expectin' him back?"
"The boys'll be comin' back in a week. He'll likely come along with them."
"U—um. You're giving me a free hand?"
"Of course."
Ferguson lounged to the door. "I'm lookin' around a little," he said, "to kind of size up things. I don't want you to put me with the outfit. That strike you right?"
"I'm hirin' you to do a certain thing," returned Stafford. "I ain't tellin' you how it ought to be done. You've got till the fall roundup to do it."
Ferguson nodded. He went to the corral fence, unhitched his pony, and rode out on the plains toward the river. Stafford watched him until he was a mere dot on the horizon. Then he smiled with satisfaction.
"I kind of like that guy," he said, commenting mentally. "There ain't no show work to him, but he's business."
Chapter VII. The Measure of a Man
During the week following Ferguson's arrival at the Two Diamond ranch Stafford saw very little of him. Mornings saw him proceed to the corral, catch up his pony, mount, and depart. He returned with the dusk. Several times, from his office window, Stafford had seen him ride away in the moonlight.
