e voice of the man who was on watch round the
band of cattle, and he was endeavoring to lull them into quiescence.
The human voice, in the stillness of the night, has a somnolent effect
upon cattle, and even mosquitoes, unless they are very thick, fail to
counteract the effect. The older hand stirred. Then he sat up and
methodically replenished the fire, kicking the dying embers together
until they blazed afresh.

"Jim Bowley do sing mighty sweet," he said, in disparaging tones. "Like
a crazy buzz-saw, I guess. S'pose them beasties is gettin' kind o'
restless. Say, Nat, how goes the time? It must be night on ter your
spell."

Nat sat up and drew out a great silver watch.

"Haf an hour yet, pard." Then he proceeded to re-fill his pipe, cutting
great flakes of black tobacco from a large plug with his sheath knife.
Suddenly he paused in the operation and listened. "Say, Jake, what's
that?"

"What's what?" replied Jake, roughly, preparing to lie down again.

"Listen!"

The two men bent their keen, prairie-trained ears to windward. They
listened intently. The night was very black--as yet the moon had not
risen. Jake used his eyes as well as ears. On the prairie, as well as
elsewhere, eyes have a lot to do with hearing. He sought to penetrate
the darkness around him, but his efforts were unavailing. He could hear
no sound but the voice of Jim Bowley and the steady plodding of his
horse's feet as he ceaselessly circled the band of somnolent cattle. The
sky was cloudy, and only here and there a few stars gleamed diamond-like
in the heavens, but threw insufficient light to aid the eyes which
sought to penetrate the surrounding gloom. The old hand threw himself
back on his pillow in skeptical irritation.

"Thar ain't nothin', young 'un," he said disdainfully. "The beasties is
quiet, and Jim Bowley ain't no tenderfoot. Say, them skitters 'as
rattled yer. Guess you 'eard some prowlin' coyote. They allus come
around whar ther's a tenderfoot."

Jake curled himself up again and chuckled at his own sneering
pleasantry.

"Coyote yerself, Jake Bond," retorted Nat, angrily. "Them lugs o' yours
is gettin' old. Guess yer drums is saggin'. You're mighty smart, I don't
think."

The youngster got on to his feet and walked to where the men's two
horses were picketed. Both horses were standing with ears cocked and
their heads held high in the direction of the mountains. Their attitude
was the acme of alertness. As the man came up t