er thatched a pair of burning, unquenchable eyes. A square, deep
jaw, lightly stubbled with grey, was clamped so tight that the cheek
muscles above it stood out in knots and welts.

Then the match burned his thick, square fingers, and he dropped it into
the darkness that ascended to swallow it.

"Who was singing that song?" he cried harshly. Nobody answered.

"Who was that singing?" he demanded again.

By this time I had recovered from my first astonishment.

"I was singing," said I.

Another match was instantly lit and thrust into my very face. I
underwent the fierce scrutiny of an instant, then the taper was thrown
away half consumed.

"Where did you learn it?" the stranger asked in an altered voice.

"I don't remember," I replied; "it is a common enough deep-sea chantey."

A heavy pause fell. Finally the stranger sighed.

"Quite like," he said; "I never heard but one man sing it."

"Who in hell are you?" someone demanded out of the darkness.

Before replying, the newcomer lit a third match, searching for a place
to sit down. As he bent forward, his strong, harsh face once more came
clearly into view.

"He's Colorado Rogers," the Cattleman answered for him; "I know him."

"Well," insisted the first voice, "what in hell does Colorado Rogers
mean by bustin' in on our song fiesta that way?"

"Tell them, Rogers," advised the Cattleman, "tell them--just as you
told it down on the Gila ten years ago next month."

"What?" inquired Rogers. "Who are you?"

"You don't know me," replied the Cattleman, "but I was with Buck
Johnson's outfit then. Give us the yarn."

"Well," agreed Rogers, "pass over the 'makings' and I will."

He rolled and lit a cigarette, while I revelled in the memory of his
rich, great voice. It was of the sort made to declaim against the sea
or the rush of rivers or, as here, the fall of waters and the
thunder--full, from the chest, with the caressing throat vibration that
gives colour to the most ordinary statements. After ten words we sank
back oblivious of the storm, forgetful of the leaky roof and the dirty
floor, lost in the story told us by the Old Timer.

CHAPTER TEN

THE TEXAS RANGERS

I came from Texas, like the bulk of you punchers, but a good while
before the most of you were born. That was forty-odd years ago--and
I've been on the Colorado River ever since. That's why they call me
Colorado Rogers. About a dozen of us came out together. We had all
been