Later, as they were crossing the big pasture toward the country that lies to the south, the foreman volunteered the further information that for the next few weeks they would ride the range.

“May I ask what for?” said Patches, encouraged by the cowboy’s manner.

It was one of the man’s peculiarities that he rarely entered into the talk of his new friends when their work was the topic of conversation.  And he never asked questions except when alone with Phil or the Dean, and then only when led on by them.  It was not that he sought to hide his ignorance, for he made no pretenses whatever, but his reticence seemed, rather, the result of a curious feeling of shame that he had so little in common with these men whose lives were so filled with useful labor.  And this, if he had known, was one of the things that made them like him.  Men who live in such close daily touch with the primitive realities of life, and who thereby acquire a simple directness, with a certain native modesty, have no place in their hearts for—­to use their own picturesque vernacular—­a “four-flusher.”

Phil tactfully did not even smile at the question, but answered in a matter-of-fact tone.  “To look out for screw-worms, brand a calf here and there, keep the water holes open, and look out for the stock generally.”

“And you mean,” questioned Patches doubtfully, “that I am to ride with you?”

“Sure.  You see, Uncle Will thinks you are too good a man to waste on the odd jobs around the place, and so I’m going to get you in shape for the rodeo this fall.”

The effect of his words was peculiar.  A deep red colored Patches’ face, and his eyes shone with a glad light, as he faced his companion.  “And you—­what do you think about it, Phil?” he demanded.

The cowboy laughed at the man’s eagerness.  “Me?  Oh, I think just as I have thought all the time—­ever since you asked for a job that day in the corral.”

Patches drew a long breath, and, sitting very straight in the saddle, looked away toward Granite Mountain; while Phil, watching him curiously, felt something like kindly pity in his heart for this man who seemed to hunger so for a man’s work, and a place among men.

Just outside the Deep Wash gate of the big pasture, a few cattle were grazing in the open flat.  As the men rode toward them, Phil took down his riata while Patches watched him questioningly.

“We may as well begin right here,” said the cowboy.  “Do you see anything peculiar about anything in that bunch?”

Patches studied the cattle in vain.

“What about that calf yonder?” suggested Phil, leisurely opening the loop of his rope.  “I mean that six-months youngster with the white face.”

Still Patches hesitated.

Phil helped him again.  “Look at his ears.”

“They’re not marked,” exclaimed Patches.

“And what should they be marked?” asked the teacher.