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OUTLAW. RANCH
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by Frank C. Robertson
As he passed out of the gate Kelvin looked up and grinned a friendly greeting at a sixteen-year-old lad he had previously noticed roosting on top of the fence with bland indifference to the choking dust. The boy was dressed in a brand-new cowboy outfit, but somehow his unsuppressed eagerness struck a sympathetic chord in the heart of the young cattle buyer.
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Good enough stuff, Kelvin thought, but he had paid a little more than he had expected to. It was his first trip to this section. The cattle grew small, but they would fatten up and grow big on the better ranges of Idaho and Montana if taken young enough.
What the two punchers had told him stuck in his memory, for all that he had no intention of following the minute directions they had given him. Those two had all the earmarks of outlaws, and he was no stranger to their ways. What they said might all have been in good faith, but, on the other hand, if he was green enough to ride the lonely trail they had outlined it would be easy for them to stage a hold-up.
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