"He's powerful big. He looks strong."
"He is strong," broke in a stranger who had overheard. "I saw him once crawl under a felled tree and raise it on the broad of his back."
"Who is he?"
"Rancher. Owns the next place to Corbell—that little dude there. Named Hunter, Bill Hunter. They call him Big Bill. Somebody once said he looked pneumatic."
"Why?"
"Looks sort of as if he had been blowed up with an air pump."
"That, also, is a jest," stated Boyd.
Kenneth laughed joyously.
"I wonder if he'd collapse if you stuck a pin in him?"
"I reckon something would collapse," agreed the stranger drily. "You from the East, I take it. Out for long?"
"Yes. I don't know. Depends on father," said Kenneth, indicating Mr. Boyd, who had by now strolled away with the banker.
"Old man sick, eh?"
"He's here for his health," admitted Kenneth.
The stranger, who was long and lank and solemn, produced a match, carefully whittled it to a point and thrust it in his mouth. He did this simple act with such a purposeful air of deliberation that Kenneth found himself watching with interest and in silence.
"My name's Paige, Jim Paige," said that individual; then: "I run the main harness shop in this place—carved leather, silver work, all that stuff."
"My name is Boyd," reciprocated Kenneth. "I don't run anything."
Paige grinned appreciatively.
"Know anybody round here?"
"Not a soul. We've only been here a week."
"A week! And don't know nobody!" Paige cast a quizzical side glance. "And you don't look extra bashful, either. Might know you were from the East."
"Have you ever been East?" countered Kenneth.
"Yes, once."
