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 He saw a neat homestead, for Ellison had been as good farmer as range cattleman. The original part of the house was built of barked cottonwood logs which had gathered lint and turned a soft gray. It was low, long, comfortable and solid, with a good shingle roof. Flanking this older unit was an extension at right angle built of weatherboards, gray-painted to conform with the weathered logs, single-storied, with a wide porch running its entire length. The whole structure, old and new, was topped by a row of lightning rods with bright metal balls which gleamed in the sun, conspicuous enough to tempt any bolt, it would appear, that might be looking for a shining mark.

A thriving, but neglected, orchard grew up to the dooryard, which was a tangle of uncut bluegrass. A white picket fence fronted the house and ran along the side, dividing it from the shed-like barn and numerous corrals.

It was plain to Simpson's quick perception that Ellison had chosen his location as an agriculturist rather than stockman. The homestead lay in a fair valley through which a little river flowed, the land broadening out with the course of the stream toward the south, in which direction fenced and fallow fields were to be seen. These lands, once cultivated, were weed-grown now and desolate, further evidence of the slack-handed management in everything about the place.

While Simpson was making this quick, unobtrusive survey of a few seconds, the girl in her mannish attire stood watching the horse, which was kicking its heels to the blue sky as it rolled in the luxury of soft earth. It scrambled up, shook itself, and headed for the barn. The girl laughed, well pleased to see it had not forgotten the