The man at the table was lean and weather-bronzed, with grizzled hair and observant eyes.

They were fixed steadily upon the farmer, who knew that very little which happened upon the prairie escaped the vigilance of Sergeant Stimson.
"It's straight talk you're giving me, Larry?
What do you figure on making by it ?" he said.
The farmer laughed mirthlessly, "Not much, any way, beyond the chance of getting a bullet in me back; or me best steer lifted one dark night, 'Tis not forgiving the rustlers are, and Courthorne's the divil," he said.

"But listen now, Sergeant, I've told ye where he is, and if ye're not fit to corral him I'll ride him down meself." Sergeant Stimson wrinkled his forehead.

"If anybody knows what they're after, it should be you," he said, watching the man out of the corner of his eyes.

"Still, I'm a little worried as to why, when you'll get nothing for it, you're anxious to serve the State." The farmer clenched a big hand.