In the wake of Hawks Bob rode through the buckbrush. There was small
chance for conversation, and in any case neither of them was in the mood
for talk. Bob's sensitive soul did not want to risk the likelihood of a
rebuff. He was susceptible to atmospheres, and he knew that Buck was
sulky at being saddled with him.

He was right. Buck did not see why Harshaw had put this outcast
tenderfoot on him. He did not see why he had hired him at all. One thing
was sure. He was not going to let the fellow get round him. No, sir. Not
on his tintype he wasn't.

Since it was the only practical way at present to show his disgust and
make the new puncher feel like a fool, Hawks led him through the roughest
country he could find at the fastest feasible gait. Buck was a notably
wild rider in a country of reckless horsemen. Like all punchers, he had
been hurt time and again. He had taken dozens of falls. Two broncos had
gone down under him with broken necks. A third had twisted its leg in a
beaver burrow and later had to be shot. This day he outdid himself.

As young Dillon raced behind him along side hills after dogies fleet as
blacktails, the heart fluttered in his bosom like a frightened bird in a
cage. He did not pretend to keep up with Hawks. The best he could do was
to come loping up after the excitement was over. The range-rider made no
spoken comment whatever, but his scornful blue eyes said all that was
necessary.

The day's work did not differ except in details from that of yesterday
and to-morrow. They headed back two three-year-olds drifting too far
north. They came on a Slash Lazy D cow with a young calf and moved it
slowly down to better feed near the creek. In the afternoon they found a
yearling sunk in a bog. After trying to pull it out by the ears, they
roped its body and tugged together. Their efforts did not budge the
animal. Hawks tied one end of the rope to the saddle-horn, swung up, and
put the pony to the pull. The muscles of the bronco's legs stood out as
it leaned forward and scratched for a foothold. The calf blatted with
pain, but presently it was snaked out from the quagmire to the firm
earth.

They crossed the creek and returned on the other side. Late in the
afternoon they met half a dozen Utes riding their inferior ponies. They
had evidently been hunting, for most of them carried deer. Old Colorow
was at their head.

He grunted "How!" sulkily. The other braves passed without speaking.
Something in the