"I come down here with a wagon to meet a feller that's goin' out to the ranch," he said, something like an apology in his manner of speaking. "Charley Thomson told me he was here."
"There's your man," said Grimmitt, tilting his head toward the sailor.
Dan gulped his amazement, thanking his lucky day that he hadn't made some kind of a crack. A broad feeling of satisfaction brought a sparkle into his eyes and a grin to his face, Once more he had to shake hands.
"I thought you'd met him," said Grimmitt, not intending the least humor.
"Gustin is the name I go by in this man's country. When they want me to come to dinner they call me Dan."
"Barrett's what they write on the tag when they ship me," said the sailor; "the handle's Ed."
They shook hands on it all once more, the sailor standing another dose of Grimmitt's great household remedy all around again.
Since there was nothing to be ashamed of in the company of such a man, even in a wagon, Dan's spirits rose with sudden rebound. He went to fetch the wagon around to get Barrett's trunk, which was still at the depot, making a display of his craft as teamster, for Dan had served his apprenticeship, as all good cowboys before him, as horse wrangler and driver of the chuck wagon in his boyhood days on the range.
It was about eighty miles to the ranch, Dan said. If it didn't rain before they struck the alkali flats they'd
