Now in the early evening the boisterous north wind was holding high carnival about the ranch house and the out-buildings of the Crooked Creek ranch. He was picking up pieces of old paper, bits of twigs and last year's dead leaves and tossing them about in high glee. The scudding wind clouds partially hid the moon and the stars. Few sounds could be heard above the howling of the wind, only the shrill, tremulous whistle of a screech owl and the diabolical yapping of a pair of coyotes.
If it was cold and blustery outside, warmth and comfort reigned inside the ranch house. The long low room was bright with the light of two lamps and a great log fire which crackled and danced in the huge fire-place. By the long table were seated fourteen cow-punchers, hale and hearty boys and the working force of the Crooked Creek ranch.
At the head of the table sat Mr. Morgan, superintendent of the ranch. At his right was Hank Brodie, the head cow-puncher, and near him his nephew, young Larry Winton, who had come up from Terryville that very afternoon. He had made the trip on a buckboard with his trunk, which contained all his worldly possessions, lashed on behind.
Larry was Hank Brodie's only near relative. His mother had been Hank's only sister, but she had died two weeks before, and as the boy's father had died
