Patches watched until she was out of sight.  Then he made his way happily to the house to receive, with a guilty conscience but with a light heart, congratulations and compliments upon his safe return.

That evening Phil disappeared somewhere, in the twilight.  And a little later Jim Reid rode into the Cross-Triangle dooryard.

The owner of the Pot-Hook-S was a big man, tall and heavy, outspoken and somewhat gruff, with a manner that to strangers often seemed near to overbearing.  When Patches was introduced, the big cattleman looked him over suspiciously, spoke a short word in response to Patches’ commonplace, and abruptly turned his back to converse with the better-known members of the household.

For an hour, perhaps, they chatted about matters of general interest, as neighbors will; then the caller arose to go, and the Dean walked with him to his horse.  When the two men were out of hearing of the people on the porch Reid asked in a low voice, “Noticed any stock that didn’t look right lately, Will?”

“No.  You see, we haven’t been ridin’ scarcely any since the Fourth.  Phil and the boys have been busy with the horses every day, an’ this new man don’t count, you know.”

“Who is he, anyway?” asked Reid bluntly.

“I don’t know any more than that he says his name is Patches.”

“Funny name,” grunted Jim.

“Yes, but there’s a lot of funny names, Jim,” the Dean answered quietly.  “I don’t know as Patches is any funnier than Skinner or Foote or Hogg, or a hundred other names, when you come to think about it.  We ain’t just never happened to hear it before, that’s all.”

“Where did you pick him up?”

“He just came along an’ wanted work.  He’s green as they make ’em, but willin’, an’ he’s got good sense, too.”

“I’d go slow ‘bout takin’ strangers in,” said the big man bluntly.

“Shucks!” retorted the Dean.  “Some of the best men I ever had was strangers when I hired ’em.  Bein’ a stranger ain’t nothin’ against a man.  You and me would be strangers if we was to go many miles from Williamson Valley.  Patches is a good man, I tell you.  I’ll stand for him, all right.  Why, he’s been out all day, alone, ridin’ the drift fence, just as good any old-timer.”

“The drift fence!”

“Yes, it’s in pretty bad shape in places.”

“Yes, an’ I ran onto a calf over in Horse Wash, this afternoon, not four hundred yards from the fence on the Tailholt side, fresh-branded with the Tailholt iron, an’ I’ll bet a thousand dollars it belongs to a Cross-Triangle cow.”

“What makes you think it was mine?” asked the Dean calmly.

“Because it looked mighty like some of your Hereford stock, an’ because I came on through the Horse Wash gate, an’ about a half mile on this side, I found one of your cows that had just lost her calf.”

“They know we’re busy an’ ain’t ridin’ much, I reckon,” mused the Dean.