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where the trout swam boldly. They looked up at the mountains; and they looked towards the hilly pastures, where the horses were grouped together and tossed their heads and whisked their long tails in protest against the midday flies. Then the trees hid the visitors from Mrs. Gunn’s sharp eyes, for they walked towards the ranch, which lay over the bridge and at a little distance from the house. So she couldn’t see them pause at the corral, with its massive five-barred fence, or look at the log buildings which lay round the corral—the saddle-barn, the stable, the smithy—or quicken their pace slightly as they passed the Wranglers’ Roost, where the boys were catnapping in the heat of the day before they rode out to the north pasture to check on the mares and the colts.
    But Mrs. Gunn had seen enough. “A regular tour of inspection, like they were prospecting the place,” she said aloud, and spat on the hot iron to test it. Then she became too busy to pay much more attention, and she had almost forgotten her remark when the ladies appeared at the kitchen door, apologetic for this intrusion and their mud-coated shoes. They sat and talked to her as she ironed, and the questions they asked—all very polite and kindly meant—were enough to let them learn a good deal about the ranch.
    Yes, Mr. Brent lived here by himself now. No, not in the ranch-house, but in the cabin over near the Wranglers’ Roost. The house was too big for one person, he said. Once there had been eight of them here. Old Mr. Brent had died two years ago, and his wife had followed him within three months. The younger son, Martin, was killed in Normandy. Martin’s wife had taken their two little girls back to Baltimore. Jill Brent, the only daughter, had married a New Zealander she met in India during the War. And, of course, there used to be a lot of friends visiting them here. In the summer the house was full, and the younger people often had to sleep over in the guest-cabin down near the creek.
    Yes, you could say it had been a lot of work, even with extra help, but it had been real nice too. Kind of lonely nowadays. It was still lonelier, though, when the boys were away at the War. Only old Chuck and his friend Bridger from Sweetwater to look after things, with the help of a couple of school kids. Of course, the horses had been taken over by the Government, and by the end of the War Chuck and old Cheesit Bridger were just caretaking the buildings and land. Now things were getting back to normal. Not quite, though. No money in horses today. Cattle was the thing. No, not cows or bulls. Steers. (This was one exchange of looks between the ladies that Mrs. Gunn couldn’t fathom.)
    Oh, yes, horses used to be a paying proposition. The Army buyers came out here regular—cavalry and artillery, you know. And the French used to buy a lot too, for overseas service. And old Mr. Brent just liked horses. That’s why he kept running them, even after the First World War. Now that Jim was in charge he was trying to change over to cattle. He had made a beginning, but cattle took a lot of acres to make any profit on them at all. If he wanted to increase the size of the herds, which cost money, he would have to sell some of his land. And then he wouldn’t have enough acres for the steers. It was a problem any way you looked at it.
    Why didn’t he sell the horses? Well, he had been trying to do that. But there were only a few dude ranches around this district (dudes were awfully sore on horses), and apart from that there were just the local buyers, who could only pay thirty dollars for a good horse. They’d only give about a hundred and fifty for a quarter-horse. Easterners might pay five hundred, but what they wanted nowadays was mostly thoroughbreds, and that took some raising and coddling, for that kind of horse couldn’t run wild or fend for itself in the winter, not even on the lower pastures. Almost as stupid as steers, who didn’t even know enough to