smoke of which he had seen.

Long before the young man struck the drive, he knew he was close by the
cloud of dust and the bawling of the cattle. His course across country
had been so accurate that he hit the herd at the point without
deflecting.

An old Texan drew up, changed his weight on the saddle to rest himself,
and hailed the youngster.

"Goin' somewheres, kid, or just ridin'?" he asked genially.

"Just takin' my hawss out for a jaunt so's he won't get hog-fat," grinned
the boy.

The Texan chewed tobacco placidly and eyed the cowpony. The horse had
been ridden so far that he was a bag of bones.

"Looks some gaunted," he commented.

"Four Bits is so thin he won't throw a shadow," admitted the boy.

"Come a right smart distance, I reckon?"

"You done said it."

"Where you headin' for?"

"For Deaf Smith County. I got an uncle there. Saw your dust an' dropped
over to tell you that a big bunch of 'Paches are camped just ahead of
you."

The older man looked at him keenly. "How do you know, son?"

"Smelt their smoke an' cut their trail."

"Know Injuns, do you?"

"I trailed with Al Sieber 'most two years."

To have served with Sieber for any length of time was a certificate of
efficiency. He was the ablest scout in the United States Army. Through
his skill and energy Geronimo and his war braves were later forced to
give themselves up to the troops.

"'Nuff said. Are these 'Paches liable to make us any trouble?"

"Yes, sir. I think they are. They're a bunch of broncos from the
reservation an' they have been across the line stealin' horses an'
murderin' settlers. They will sure try to stampede your cattle an' run
off a lot of 'em."

"Hmp! You better go back an' see old man Webb about it. What's yore name,
kid?"

For just an eye-beat the boy hesitated. "Call me Jim Thursday."

A glimmer of a smile rested in the eyes of the Texan. He was willing to
bet that this young fellow would not have given him that name if to-day
had not happened to be the fifth day of the week. But it was all one to
the cowpuncher. To question a man too closely about his former residence
and manner of life was not good form on the frontier.

"I'll call you Jim from Sunday to Saturday," he said, pulling a tobacco
pouch from his hip pocket. "My name is Wrayburn--Dad Wrayburn, the boys
call me."

The Texan shouted to the man riding second on the swing. "Oh, you, Billie
Prince!"

A tanned, good-looking young fellow cantere