“How about the horses down at Menlo? — never mind, I’ll look them over and decide what to keep. Mrs. Summerstone will stay on here in charge of the house, because I’ve got too much work mapped out for myself already. I promise you you won’t regret giving me a free hand with my directly personal affairs. And now, if you want to hear about the last three years, I’ll spin the yarn for you.”

Dick Forrest had been right when he told his guardians that his mind was acid and would bite into the books. Never was there such an education, and he directed it himself — but not without advice. He had learned the trick of hiring brains from his father and from John Chisum of the Jingle-bob. He had learned to sit silent and to think while cow men talked long about the campfire and the chuck