brows, “It’s the piping from Buckeye Dam. Something’s wrong with the plans — a serious mistake, he says.”

Dick surrendered, and for an hour discussed ranch business with his foremen and managers.

Once, in the middle of a hot discussion over sheep-dips with Wardman, he left his desk and paced over to the window. The sound of voices and horses, and of Paula’s laugh, had attracted him.

“Take that Montana report — I’ll send you a copy to-day,” he continued, as he gazed out. “They found the formula didn’t get down to it. It was more a sedative than a germicide. There wasn’t enough kick in it� “

Four horses, bunched, crossed his field of