ess cunning of a drunken man.

At last the absurdity of the position became too much, and he hailed
the little choreman in the midst of his laughter.

"Ho! You, Joe!" he called. "What the blazes d'you think you're doing?"

There was no reply. For all heed the man under the blanket gave, he
might have been deaf, dumb and blind. He just came steadily on.

Tresler shouted again, and more sharply. This time his summons had its
effect. It brought an answer--an answer that set him off into a fresh
burst of laughter.

"Gorl darn it, boys," came a peevish voice, from amidst the blanket,
"'tain't smart, neither, playin' around when a feller's kind o'
roundin' up his plug. How'm I goin' to cut that all-fired buckskin out
o' the bunch wi' you gawkin' around like a reg'ment o' hoboes? Ef you
don't reckon to fool any, why, some o' you git around an' head him off
from the rest of 'em. I'd do it myself on'y my cussed legs has given
out."

"Boys, eh?" Tresler was still laughing, but he checked his mirth
sufficiently to answer, "Why, man, it's the whisky that's fooling you.
There are no 'boys,' and no 'bunch' of horses here. Just your horse
and mine; and I've got them both safe enough. You're drunk,
Joe--beastly drunk."

Joe suddenly struggled to his feet and stood swaying uncertainly, but
trying hard to steady himself. He focussed his eyes with much effort
upon the tall figure before him, and then suddenly moved forward like
a man crossing a brook on a single, narrow, and dangerously swaying
plank. He all but pitched headlong into the waiting man as he reached
him, and would undoubtedly have fallen to the ground but for the aid
of a friendly hand thrust out to catch him. And while Tresler turned
to pacify the two thoroughly frightened horses, the little man's angry
tones snapped out at him in what was intended for a dignified
protest. In spite of his drunken condition, his words were distinct
enough, though his voice was thick. After all, as he said, it was his
legs that had given way.

"Guess you're that blazin' 'tenderfoot' Tresler," he said, with all
the sarcasm he was capable of at the moment. "Wal, say, Mr. a'mighty
Tresler, ef it wa'n't as you wus a 'tenderfoot,' I'd shoot you fer
sayin' I wus drunk. Savee? You bein' a 'tenderfoot,' I'll jest mention
you're side-tracked, you're most on the scrap heap, you've left the
sheer trail an' you're ditched. You've hit a gait you can't travel,
an' don't amount to a decent, full-s