That's him sure," he
added, as the man drew nearer. Then he went on musingly. "I guess
he's got a lot to dope out. Say, them guys must have passed near by
his shanty."
Bob Whitstone reined his pony up with a jerk. He was on a mission that
inspired no other emotion than that of repulsion and self-loathing.
And these things found reflection in his good-looking face.
He glanced swiftly from one to the other as he confronted the burly
rancher and his station foreman. The latter he did not know, nor was
he interested in him. The man he had come to see was Dug McFarlane,
who claimed from him, as he did from every man in the district,
something in the nature of respect.
"Guess you'll remember me, sir," he began, in his easy, refined tones.
"My name is Whitstone--Bob Whitstone. You granted me certain grazing
rights awhile back. It was some two years ago. Maybe you'll remember.
You did it to help me out. Anyway, I came over to see you this morning
because--I must. If you can spare half an hour I want to see you
privately.
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