III

      BRUCE MARVEL

      THE TF ranch in Porico County, Arizona, had fallen upon bad days. For three generations its great ranges, its wooded mountains, its widely scattered streams and water holes had remained in one family; but the males of the third generation, educated at Eastern colleges, softened by contact with the luxuries of large cities, had left their vast principality in the hands of salaried managers and contemporaneously the cattle business had suffered one of its periodic slumps.

      It is not necessary to go into the harrowing details that are all too familiar to cattle men. Several years before, title had passed to a group of banks that held paper far in excess of the present value of the property, which, in order to maintain grazing rights on Government land, had been forced into the operation of the ranch while they sought frantically and futilely for a buyer all the way from the Atlantic to the Pacific.

      An experienced cattle man was operating the business for them in an endeavor to make expenses; and following his policy of taking advantage of every opportunity to augment the income, he had leased the home ranch together with the hunting and fishing privileges of the entire property to Cory Blaine, who had thus become a pioneer in the dude ranch business.

      It takes time and capital to establish a going business, and Cory Blaine had discovered that a dude ranch was no exception to the rule.

      For two years it had been rather hard sledding, but at last he felt that the venture was on the high road to success. The number of his guests was satisfactory and so were their bank accounts, but even so Cory Blaine was not perfectly satisfied. He wanted more than a living. He wanted big money; and the more he came in contact with people who had it, the more determined he had become to have it himself; for Cory Blaine's ambition was developed almost to the point of a disease.

      He was sitting late one afternoon upon the front porch of the ranch house with some of his guests when a buckboard swung into sight on the dusty road that wound for miles through the property down to the railroad.

      "Here comes the tenderfoot," said a man from Boston, who, three weeks previously, had never been west of Philadelphia.

      "I hope he can play bridge," said a fat lady in khaki bloomers and high heeled shoes.

      "I'm just hoping he can stay on a horse without help," said Blaine.

      The buckboard that was approaching, drawn by a team of broncos, was the result of Cory Blaine's instinct for showmanship. He used it exclusively to transport his guests between the railroad and the ranch house, feeling that it lent an atmosphere that no automobile could induce.

      The man who drove the buckboard was also a showman, as was evidenced by the magnificent style in which he drew up in front of the ranch house, covering the last two or three hundred yards at a gallop, setting the broncos on their haunches in a cloud of dust at the finish.

      A couple of cowhands had sauntered over from the bunk house when the buckboard had first appeared in the distance; and as Bruce Marvel alighted, they were unroping his trunk at the back of the vehicle while they sized him up with inward contempt. All other eyes were upon the new arrival as Cory Blaine descended from the porch and took him by the hand.

      "You'd be Mr. Marvel, I reckon," said Blaine.

      "Yes," replied the newcomer.

      "My name's Blaine," said the host. "I'm glad to meet you."

      "Thanks," said Marvel.

      "Have a good trip?"

      "Yes, but a dirty one. I'd like to go to my room and clean up."

      "Sure," said Blaine. "Come ahead. The boys will be right up with your stuff," and he led the way into the house, followed by his new guest.

      "Here ye are," said Blaine, opening the door of a small box- like room. "Guess you'll find everything here you need. When yer done come on out and meet the rest of the folks. We feed at six o'clock. It's pretty near that now."

      "By the way," said Marvel as Blaine was leaving, "shall I dress for dinner?"

      "Aint you dressed now?" asked the other.

      "I mean do the men wear dinner clothes?—tuxedos, you know."

      Blaine tried to hide the pity in his heart as he explained that that was not at all necessary; but when he closed the door behind him he grinned; and upon the other side of the door his guest grinned, too.

      "What do you suppose?" asked Blaine as he joined the others on the porch.

      "What?" asked a girl in overalls.

      "He wants to know if he should put on a spike tailed coat and a stove pipe hat for dinner."

      "My God!" exclaimed a young woman, who was rigged up in an outfit that would have turned Tom Mix green with envy. "He's got a lot to learn."

      "Perhaps," said the blond girl in overalls, "he is just trying to be himself and act natural. You know there are a lot of people who dress for dinner every night."

      "When you are in Rome, do as the Romans do," said the man from Boston.

      "Give him a chance," said the blond girl, "and don't forget that on the first camping trip we took after you arrived you brought along green silk pajamas."

      "Oh,