bunch of soap-weed in the middle distance.

But in a moment the cattle could be seen plainly. Button pricked up
his ears. He knew cattle. Now he proceeded tentatively, lifting high
his little hoofs to avoid the half-seen inequalities of the ground and
the ground's growths, wondering whether he were to be called on to rope
or to drive. When the rider had approached to within a hundred feet,
the cattle started. Immediately Button understood that he was to
pursue. No rope swung above his head, so he sheered off and ran as
fast as he could to cut ahead of the bunch. But his rider with knee
and rein forced him in. After a moment, to his astonishment, he found
himself running alongside a big steer. Button had never hunted
buffalo--Buck Johnson had.

The Colt's forty-five barked once, and then again. The steer staggered,
fell to his knees, recovered, and finally stopped, the blood streaming
from his nostrils. In a moment he fell heavily on his side--dead.

Senor Johnson at once dismounted and began methodically to skin the
animal. This was not easy for he had no way of suspending the carcass
nor of rolling it from side to side. However, he was practised at it
and did a neat job. Two or three times he even caught himself taking
extra pains that the thin flesh strips should not adhere to the inside
of the pelt. Then he smiled grimly, and ripped it loose.

After the hide had been removed he cut from the edge, around and
around, a long, narrow strip. With this he bound the whole into a
compact bundle, strapped it on behind his saddle, and remounted. He
returned to the arroyo.

Estrella still lay with her eyes closed. Brent Palmer looked up
keenly. The bronco-buster saw the green hide. A puzzled expression
crept across his face.

Roughly Johnson loosed his enemy from the wheel and dragged him to the
woman. He passed the free end of the riata about them both, tying them
close together. The girl continued to moan, out of her wits with
terror.

"What are you going to do now, you devil?" demanded Palmer, but
received no reply.

Buck Johnson spread out the rawhide. Putting forth his huge strength,
he carried to it the pair, bound together like a bale of goods, and
laid them on its cool surface. He threw across them the edges, and
then deliberately began to wind around and around the huge and unwieldy
rawhide package the strip he had cut from the edge of the pelt.

Nor was this altogether easy. At last