Five minutes later Curly lifted himself on one elbow in the corral dust, and looked up with respectful admiration to the quiet man who stood waiting for him to rise.  Curly’s lip was bleeding generously; the side of his face seemed to have slipped out of place, and his left eye was closing surely and rapidly.

“Get up,” said the tall man calmly.  “There is more where that came from, if you want it.”

The cowboy grinned painfully.  “I ain’t hankerin’ after any more,” he mumbled, feeling his face tenderly.

“It said that my name was Patches,” suggested the stranger.

“Sure, Mr. Patches, I reckon nobody’ll question that.”

“Honorable Patches,” again prompted the stranger.

“Yes, sir.  You bet; Honorable Patches,” agreed Curly with emphasis.  Then, as he painfully regained his feet, he held out his hand with as nearly a smile as his battered features would permit.  “Do you mind shaking on it, Mr. Honorable Patches?  Just to show that there’s no hard feelin’s?”

Patches responded instantly with a manner that won Curly’s heart.  “Good!” he said.  “I knew you would do that when you understood, or I wouldn’t have bothered to show you my credentials.”

“My mistake,” returned Curly.  “It’s them there credentials of yourn, not your name, that’s hell.”

He gingerly mounted his horse again, and Patches turned back to the Dean as though apologizing for the interruption.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but—­about work?”

The Dean never told anyone just what his thoughts were at that particular moment; probably because they were so many and so contradictory and confusing.  Whether from this uncertainty of mind; from a habit of depending upon his young foreman, or because of that something, which Phil and the stranger seemed to have in common, he shifted the whole matter by saying, “It’s up to Phil here.  He’s foreman of the Cross-Triangle.  If he wants to hire you, it’s all right with me.”

At this the two young men faced each other; and on the face of each was a half questioning, half challenging smile.  The stranger seemed to say, “I know I am at your mercy; I don’t expect you to believe in me after our meeting on the Divide, but I dare you to put me to the test.”

And Phil, if he had spoken, might have said, “I felt when I met you first that there was a man around somewhere.  I know you are curious to see what you would do if put to the test.  I am curious, too.  I’ll give you a chance.”  Aloud he reminded the stranger pointedly, “I said we might use you if you could ride.”

Patches smiled his self-mocking smile, evidently appreciating his predicament.  “And I said,” he retorted, “that I didn’t see why I couldn’t.”

Phil turned to his grinning but respectful helpers.  “Bring out that bay with the blazed face.”

“Great Snakes!” ejaculated Curly to Bob, as they reached the gate leading to the adjoining corral.  “His name is Patches, all right, but he’ll be pieces when that bay devil gets through with him, if he can’t ride.  Do you reckon he can?”