eem more like herds, an' somethin' had t' be did,
an' Squeak Gordon, th' manager, wa'n't no man for th' job."

"Squeak!" interrupted Jim. "That's a fine name for a white man."

"'Count of his voice," Buck explained briefly, and went on. "So it was
up t' Lem Fisher, th' foreman, an' him an' 'bout seven punchers,
includin' me, got th' job. 'Course, we had some idea of where them
steers was goin', an' what brands was goin' over ours, but we was
wantin' somethin' pos'tive before we c'd get busy.

"I started talkin' 'bout braided linen ropes, not 'bout cattle thieves,
so they's no use tellin' you of all th' figurin', an' trailin', an' hard
ridin' we did. You know old Mr. Shakespeare sez that levity's th' soul
o' wit."

"Brevity," corrected Whitey.

"What's the difference?" demanded Shorty. "Buck don't know what either
o' them words means."

"Neither do you," retorted Buck.

"Anyway, they ain't got nothin' t' do with braided linen ropes. G'wan,"
commanded Bill.

"Well," resumed Buck, "one noon, in th' foothills, we come on what we
was after, an' we did some stalkin' t' do it. We ketched three guys
red-handed. They was artistic-like re-brandin' some of our calves so's
Lazy I'd read Circle W. 'Course, they wa'n't but one thing t' do with
them fellers, an' we perceeds to do it. But unfortunate enough they
wa'n't a tree within miles of that there spot. It'd seem as though
nature hadn't figured on no rus'lers conductin' bizness there, an'
gettin' caught.

"We felt purty bad about that, an' knowin' those fellers as we did made
us feel worse. They sure didn't deserve shootin'. Then Lem Fisher, who
always was handy with his memory, happens t' think of a canyon 'bout
three mile away, with a bridge over it. Sort o' like that place at the
water tank, where them boys was strung up this mornin', only deeper, an'
th' stream under it swifter an' rockier.

"Well, we conducts our three friends to this here canyon. They draw lots
t' see who goes first, an' a feller named Red Mike wins--- or loses,
rather--as he gets number one. The noose of one of these common manilas
is attached to Mike's neck, th' other end is fastened to th' bridge,
an' he's dropped over.

"An' would you b'lieve it? When Mike comes to the end of that there rope
with a jerk, th' rope breaks, an' Mike goes cavortin' down that swift
stream, at th' rate of 'bout thirty miles an hour, bumpin' against th'
rocks an' everythin'. An' he sure must 'a' disliked that, for