Toward noon the heavy train pulled into Glen City and they bundled out on to the platform. They were the only passengers, but there was a great deal of freight—boxes, barrels, and cases of provisions. As they stood hesitating as to what they had better do a tall, bony young fellow approached the station agent and called with a decided suggestion of the Highlander in his accent:
"I dinna see those kegs of lime for Crescent Ranch, Mitchell."
"They're here. You will find them at the end of the platform. Come, and I'll help you pile them on your wagon."
Mr. Clark turned to the Scotchman.
"Are you going to Crescent Ranch?"
"Aye, I be, sir."
"Can you take my son and me along?"
The Scotchman studied him carefully.
"Have you business at the ranch?" he asked, looking keenly into the eyes of the speaker.
Mr. Clark met his gaze good-naturedly.
"We might possibly have," he answered. "At any rate we want to go up there. My name is Clark and I come from Boston."
"Clark, did you say, sir?"
"Yes."
The stolid stare of the Scotchman did not waver.
"Mayhap you're the owner, sir."
"Yes, I am."
A gleam of something very like satisfaction passed over the tanned features of the young man. Then his face settled back into its wonted calmness.
"It's welcome you are, sir," he said heartily. "I dinna think there'll be trouble about taking you and your son to Crescent."
He wheeled and led the way to a wagon, where he piled up some sacks of grain for his guests to sit upon. Then he lifted in their luggage and the freight for which he had come, and gathered the lines over the backs of his horses.
As the wagon toiled up the long, low hills Mr. Clark began asking questions about the ranch—he asked many questions concerning the country and the flocks. To all of these he received terse answers.
Presently the Scotchman turned.
"It's little you be knowin' of sheepin', sir."
The remark was made with so much simplicity that it could not have been mistaken for rudeness.
"Very little."
"Keep it to yourself, man," was the laconic advice the Highlander tossed over his shoulder as he transferred his attention to his horses.
Mr. Clark bit his lip to hide a smile.
"What is your name, my lad?" he asked suddenly.
"Sandy McCulloch, sir," was the quiet answer.
Donald waited, listening eagerly to every turn of the conversation that followed, but to his astonishment neither his father nor Sandy McCulloch spoke one word regarding the mysterious telegram.
It was nightfall when the wagon that had brought them turned into a muddy drive and stopped before a bare looking house situated in a meadow, and surrounded by a number of vast barns and sheep-pens. Out of this house came a broad-shouldered, bronzed man who stood on the steps, waiting their approach. He wore trousers of sheepskin, a soiled flannel shirt, and round his neck—knotted in the back—was a red handkerchief. Donald noticed that into his belt of Mexican leather was tucked a revolver. He stared at the strangers inquiringly.
Mr. Clark jumped out as soon as the wagon stopped, and extended his hand.
"I do not know your name," he said pleasantly, "but mine is Clark. My son Donald and I have come from Boston to see the ranch."
The man sprang forward.
"I'm Tom Thornton, sir. What a pleasure to have a visit from you! Such an unexpected visit, too."
He slapped Mr. Clark heartily on the shoulder and took Donald's hand in a tight grip.
But though he talked loudly, and laughed a great deal while carrying in their luggage, for some reason Donald felt certain that really Tom Thornton was not glad to see them at all.
CHAPTER II
WHO SANDY WAS
There was nothing to keep them within the great chilly house, and everything to lure them into the sunshine. The sky was without a cloud, and into its blueness stretched distant ranges of hazy mountains at whose feet nestled lower hills covered with faint green. Near at hand patches of meadow were toned to grayish white by grazing bands of sheep. On the still air came the flat, metallic note of herd-bells, and the bleating of numberless unseen flocks within the pens and barns.
What a novel scene it was!
The newcomers found their way to a sheltered corner where they could look out before them into the vastness.
It was all so strange, so interesting!
Somewhere in the ravine below they could catch the rushing music of a stream which wove itself in and out a maze of rolling hills and was lost at last in the shadows of the green valleys.
As they stood silent and drank in the beauty about them, an angry voice broke the stillness.
It came from the interior of the barn near which they were standing.
"I tell you what, Tom Thornton, I'm with Sandy McCulloch. The sheep always were washed after shearing in Old Angus's day, and in Johnson's as well. That is how Crescent Ranch came to have the good name it now holds. There were no scabby sheep here to infect the rest of the herd."
"What's that to you, Jack Owen? You are here to mind the boss, ain't you? What's the use of our working like beavers for ten days to dip the flock if we don't have to? Dipping is a dirty, tiresome job. You are not in for making work for yourself, are you?"
"The flocks will be ruined!"
"What do you care—they are not your sheep."
"Well, I have been on this ranch a long time, Thornton, and I can't help caring what becomes of 'em. I take the same pride in the place Sandy does. We have won a reputation here for doing things the way they ought to be done—for minding the laws—for having clean, healthy stock. Sandy says he shall dip his herd, anyway."
"Bother Sandy! He's talked to you men until he's got you all upset. You would have been with me if he had kept his mouth shut. But no matter what he says I am running this ranch at present. I mean to run it in the future, too. If you're wise you will do as I tell you."
"Mr. Clark may have something to say about the dipping."
"Don't you fret," sneered Thornton. "I sounded him last night. He's a tenderfoot. I don't believe he knows a thing about sheeping."
Mr. Clark drew Donald into the sun-flooded field before he spoke.
Then, after a thoughtful silence he turned:
"Well, Don?"
"I wouldn't have that Thornton here another day, father!" broke out the boy hotly.
"Slowly, son, slowly! We must be sure about Thornton before we condemn him. He has been ten years on the ranch; more than that, we are without a manager, and we have none in view. Remember 'he stumbles who runs fast.' Take time, Don, take time."
Donald