t few
years," said the trail boss, catching sight of his remuda. "Now, there's
the wagon. Suppose you ride down to the Beaver and select a good camp,
well above the trail crossing, and I'll meet the commissary and herd.
We'll have to lay over this afternoon, which will admit of watering the
herd twice to-day. Try and find some shade."

The men separated, riding away on different angles. The foreman hailed
his wagon, found the victim resting comfortably, and reported securing a
haven for the wounded man. Instructing his cook to watch for a signal,
at the hands of the stranger, indicating a camp on the creek, he turned
and awaited the arrival of the lead cattle of the trailing column.
Issuing orders to cover the situation, he called off half the men, first
veering the herd to the nearest water, and rode to overtake his wagon
and saddle horses.

Beaver Creek was barely running water, with an occasional long pool. A
hedge of willows was interwoven, Indian fashion, from which a tarpaulin
was stretched to the wagon bows, forming a sheltered canopy. Amid a fire
of questions, the wounded man was lifted from the wagon.

"Are you sure there isn't a woman at this nester's shack," said he
appealingly to the bearers of the blanket stretcher. "If there is, I
ain't going. Paul, stand squarely in front of me, where I can see your
eyes. After what I've been handed lately, it makes me peevish. I want to
feel the walnut juice in your hand clasp. Now, tell it all over
once more."

The stranger was artfully excused, to select a beef, after which the
foreman sat down beside his man, giving him all the details and making
valuable suggestions. He urged courteous treatment of their guest while
he remained; that there was nothing to be gained, after the accident, by
insult to a visitor, and concluded by praising the boys and bespeaking
their protection.

The wounded man was Southern by birth and instinct, and knew that the
hospitality of ranch and road and camp was one and the same. "Very
well," said he, "but in this instance, remember it's my calf that's
gored. Serves me right, though, kittening up to every stranger that
comes along. I must be getting tired of you slatterly cow hands." He
hesitated a moment. "The one thing I like," he continued, "about this
nester layout is those red-headed boys. And these two are just about
petting age. I can almost see them eating sugar out of my hand."

After dinner, and now that a haven was secured,