"Go out and buy me a cigar," ordered Summerfield; "a fat perfecto. Geigel has 'em, two for a quarter."
"Who says the cigars are on me?"
"I do. You took in a package for Barton, at Dry Wash, didn't you?"
"Yep. If you'd been attendin' to business instead of paradin' around with a skirt, I wouldn't have had to take it in."
"You marked that package six pounds."
"That's what it weighs in at. I remember it. Collected two bits from your father-in-law elect, Arlo McKenzie. Why?"
"It weighs eight pounds, son. Go into the storeroom and get it and see for yourself."
Reeves looked startled. Then he rushed for the storeroom and got the Barton package from a shelf by the window. Summerfield leaned against the counter with a complacent smile while Al laid the package on the scales. "Say, Joe," the driver whooped, "what you givin' me?"
"Eight pounds, eh?" queried Summerfield.
"No, six. Come and look."
The smile vanished from Summerfield's face, and his complacency disappeared. He went hurriedly to the scales, looked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. The beam tilted at not quite six pounds. Next he looked at the package, blew the dust off the scales, and weighed the shipment very carefully for himself. He peered at the hilarious Reeves in astonishment.
"I weighed that package an hour or two ago," he declared, "and it weighed eight pounds!"
"Yes, you did!" cried Reeves. "Trouble with you is, Joe, Lois McKenzie has got you buffaloed. You don't know whether you're afoot or horseback, right side up or standin' on your head. Who buys from Geigel, huh? Who"
The door opened, and some one walked in. A cheery voice called: "Howdy, Summerfield!"
CHAPTER II.
CLEARING THE SITUATION.
RUTHVEN!" exclaimed the express agent, glad of the diversion. "Say, you're just the fellow I want to see!"
"Oh, no!" said Reeves jeeringly. "Ruthven's not the fellow you want to see, Joe. You want to see a doctor. You're pickled—fifty-seven different ways."
"Get out of here," growled Summerfield, "or you'll miss that train!"
"Well, I'm not missin' any sleep because I can't see straight," scored the driver. And he winked at Ruthven as he went out of the door with an armful of bundles.
"What's the trouble?" Ruthven inquired.
"Funny mix-up in weights," said the agent. "But I guess it's one on me. It only goes to prove that a fellow can't be so wise all the time as he is just some of the time. What are you all dolled up for?" he inquired, taking note of Ruthven's unusual appearance.
Lewis Ruthven was a big fellow, and yet there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on him. His shoulders were broad, his chest was deep, and he measured six feet in height. He had come from the East two months before, and had gone straight into the cattle country to the Barton Ranch south of Burt City.
It was known that Tom Barton was his mother's brother, and that he had come to Montana because he had had a disagreement with his father. How that got out, no one knew. Ruthven himself was not saying a word. He was just cheerfully taking life as he found it, and doing his best to make good on Uncle Tom's lower ranch. Already he had shown such an aptitude for "busting" bronchos and roping steers—and
