h Mart Cooley, who was now
working for Walt. They had dropped in to see if Whitey had arrived home
safely, supposing that he had started for home when he left the Star
Circle.

When it was learned that Whitey wasn't at home, and no one knew where he
was, Mr. Sherwood had his surprise, and it wasn't pleasant. And Bill
Jordan looked crestfallen. They had talked it over till late, and
decided to start a search for Whitey in the morning. Then, when Whitey,
clad in a large night-shirt and riding a half-wild pony, came to summon
the vigilantes--well, it seemed a time for surprises.

The men hastily dressed and armed themselves, summoned all the others on
the ranch, and saddled their horses. While this is going on, at the risk
of telling you something you already know, a word about the vigilantes.
In the Old West various bodies of men were formed to clean up the wilder
elements. Sometimes they enforced their law by being lawless themselves.
They made a man be good if they had to hang him to do it. The law was
weak. By harsh, rough treatment--as a tigress might treat its cub--they
made it strong. And when the law was strong and able to care for
itself--again like the tigress--they allowed it to do so; the vigilantes
disbanded.

The Bar O mustered about ten men. The rider of the fastest horse dashed
ahead to the Junction, to get reenforcements to join the ranchmen on
their way to the scene of action. And now came bitter, oh, bitter!
disappointment for Whitey. He was not to be allowed to go. He had been
hero enough. The only clothing that iron-gray pony had on during that
fourteen-mile ride was a hackamore, and the only clothing Whitey had on
was a night-shirt. He was fit for nothing except to lie face downward
and sleep--no attitude for a hero.

Whitey begged, he appealed, he almost wept, but his father was firm. He
was willing to risk his own life; he would not risk his son's. So, with
tears in his eyes, Whitey stood and watched the party gallop away in the
darkness. And beside him, a lantern in his hand, stood the cook, an
elderly man who had taken Wong Lee's place. And he watched wistfully,
too, for he wanted to go, but he had left one of his legs on a Southern
battle-field.

Whitey choked back a sob with which the silence would have been broken.
He felt something warm and moist on his hand, and looked down. It was
the tongue of Sitting Bull, the faithful--forgotten but not forgetting.
And as Whitey gazed at the friendl