Jim Reid shook his head in puzzled doubt.

The cowboys were clearly divided.

“He’s too good a hand for a tenderfoot,” argued one; “carried that off like an old-timer.”

“’Tain’t like Nick to lay down so easy for anybody,” added another.

“Nick’s on to something about Mr. Patches that we ain’t next to,” insisted a third.

“Or else we’re all bein’ strung for a bunch of suckers,” offered still another.

“You boys just hold your horses, an’ ride easy,” said Curly.  “My money’s still on Honorable Patches.”

And Bob added his loyal support with his cheerful “Me, too!”

“It all looked straight enough,” Jim Reid admitted to the Dean that evening, “but I can’t get away from the notion that there was some sort of an understanding between your man an’ that damned Tailholt Mountain thief.  It looked like it was all too quiet an’ easy somehow; like it had been planned beforehand.”

The Dean laughingly told his neighbor that he was right; that there was an understanding between Patches and Nick, and then explained by relating how Patches had met the Tailholt Mountain men that day at the spring.

When the Dean had finished the big cowman asked several very suggestive questions.  How did the Dean know that Patches’ story was anything more than a cleverly arranged tale, invented for the express purpose of allaying any suspicion as to his true relationship with Nick?  If Patches’ character was so far above suspicion, why did he always dodge any talk that might touch his past?  Was it necessary or usual for men to keep so close-mouthed about themselves?  What did the Dean, or anyone else, for that matter, really know about this man who had appeared so strangely from nowhere, and had given a name even that was so plainly a ridiculous invention?  The Dean must remember that the suspicion as to the source of Nick’s too rapidly increasing herds had, so far, been directed wholly against Nick himself, and that the owner of the Four-Bar-M iron was not altogether a fool.  It was quite time, Reid argued, for Nick to cease his personal activities, and to trust the actual work of branding to some confederate whose movements would not be so closely questioned.  In short, Reid had been expecting some stranger to seek a job with some of the ranches that were in a position to contribute to the Tailholt Mountain outfit, and, for his part, he would await developments before becoming too enthusiastic over Honorable Patches.

All of which the good Dean found very hard to answer.

“But look here, Jim,” he protested, “don’t you go makin’ it unpleasant for the boy.  Whatever you think, you don’t know any more than the rest of us.  If we’re guessin’ on one side, you’re guessin’ on the other.  I admit that what you say sounds reasonable; but, hang it, I like Patches.  As for his name—­well—­we didn’t use to go so much on names, in this country, you know.  The boy may have some good reason for not talkin’ about himself.  Just give him a square chance; don’t put no burrs under his saddle blanket—­that’s all I’m askin’.”