he
had yet to discover--though there was reason for hoping that it would
be. Even so venturesome a man as Rowdy Vaughan would scarce ride a long
hundred miles through unpeopled prairie, in the tricky month of March,
without some reason for expecting a welcome at the end of his journey.
In this case, a previous acquaintance with "Wooden Shoes" Mielke,
foreman of the Cross L, was Rowdy's trump-card. Wooden Shoes, whenever
chance had brought them together in the last two or three years, was
ever urging Rowdy to come over and unroll his soogans in the Cross L
bed-tent, and promising the best string in the outfit to ride--besides
other things alluring to a cow-puncher. So that, when his relations with
the Horseshoe Bar became strained, Rowdy remembered his friend of the
Cross L and the promises, and had drifted south.

Just now he hoped that Wooden Shoes would be home to greet him, and
his eyes searched wishfully the huddle of low-eaved cabins and the
assortment of sheds and corrals for the bulky form of the foreman. But
no one seemed to be about--except a bigbodied, bandy-legged individual,
who appeared to be playfully chasing a big, bright bay stallion inside
the large enclosure where stood the cabins.

Rowdy watched them impersonally; a glance proved that the man was not
Wooden Shoes, and so he was not particularly interested in him or his
doings. It did occur to him, however, that if the fellow wanted to catch
that brute, he ought to have sense enough to get a horse. No one but
a plumb idiot would mill around in that snow afoot. He jogged down the
slope at a shuffling trot, grinning tolerantly at the pantomime below.

He of the bandy-legs stopped, evidently out of breath; the stallion
stopped also, snorting defiance. Rowdy heard him plainly, even at that
distance. The horse arched his neck and watched the man warily, ready
to be off at the first symptom of hostilities--and Rowdy observed that a
short rope hung from his halter, swaying as he moved.

Bandy-legs seemed to have an idea; he turned and scuttled to the nearest
cabin, returning with what seemed a basin of oats, for he shook it
enticingly and edged cautiously toward the horse. Rowdy could imagine
him coaxing, with hypocritically endearing names, such as "Good old
boy!" and "Steady now, Billy"--or whatever the horse's name might
be. Rowdy chuckled to himself, and hoped the horse saw through the
subterfuge.

Perhaps the horse chuckled also; at any rate, he st