He had on a pair of sheepskin trousers with the fleece still adhering,
and his long legs had the slight crook that spoke of a life spent almost
entirely in the saddle. A buckskin shirt, a handkerchief knotted loosely
around his neck and a broad slouch hat with a rattlesnake skin encircling
it for a band completed his costume. There was about him the air of a man
accustomed to be obeyed, and yet there was no swagger or truculence in
his bearing. His glance was singularly fearless and direct, and the boys
warmed to him at first sight.
"Just the man I wanted to see, Sandy," said his employer. "I want you to
meet these three young friends of mine."
As their names were spoken the boys stepped forward and shook hands
heartily.
"Mr. Clinch is one of the best foremen that ever rode the range or roped
a steer," went on Melton, "and what he don't know about a ranch isn't
worth knowing. I've got to go up to the house now to look over some
accounts and I'm going to leave you in his care. You remember, Sandy,
that little scrap in Mexico I told you about? Well, these are the boys
that stood at my back.
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