s is my side-kicker over the line that--you've heard about till
you're plumb weary, boys," he announced musically. "His name is Rowdy
Vaughan--bronco-peeler, crap fiend, and all-round bad man. He ain't a
safe companion, and yuh want t' sleep with your six-guns cuddled under
your right ear, and never, on no account, show him your backs. He's a
real wolf, he is, and the only reason I live t' tell the tale is because
he respects m' size. Boys, I'm afraid for yuh--but I wish yuh well."

"Pink, you need killing, and I'm tempted to live up to my rep," grinned
Rowdy indulgently. "Read me the pedigree of your friends."

"Oh, they ain't no worse--when yuh git used to 'em. That long-legged
jasper with the far-away look in his eyes is the Silent One--if he takes
a notion t' you, he'll maybe tell yuh the name his mother calls him. He
may have seen better days; but here's hoping he won't see no worse! He
once was a tenderfoot; but he's convalescing."

The Silent One nodded carelessly, but with a quick, measuring glance
that Rowdy liked.

"This unshaved savage is Smoky. He's harmless, if yuh don't
mention socialism in his presence; and if yuh do, he'll
down-with-the-trust-and-long-live-the-sons-uh-toil, all hours uh the
night, and keep folks awake. Then him and the fellow that started him
off 'll likely get chapped good and plenty. Over there's Jim Ellis
and Bob Nevin; they've both turned a cow or two, and I've seen worse
specimens running around loose--plenty of 'em. That man hidin' behind
the grin--you can see him if yuh look close--is Sunny Sam. Yuh needn't
take no notice of him, unless you're a mind to. He won't care--he's dead
gentle.

"Say," he broke off, "how'd you happen t' stray onto this range, anyhow?
Yuh used t' belong t the Horseshoe Bar so solid the assessor always t'
yuh down on the personal-property list."

"They won't pay taxes on me no more, son." Rowdy's eyes dwelt fondly
upon Pink's cupid-bow mouth and dimples. He had never dreamed of finding
Pink here; though, when he came to think of it there was no reason why
he shouldn't.

Pink was not like any one else. He was slight and girlish to look at.
But you mustn't trust appearances; for Pink was all muscle strung on
steel wire, according to the belief of those who tried to handle him.
He had little white hands, and feet that looked quite comfortable in
a number four boot, and his hair was a tawny gold and curled in
distracting, damp rings on his forehead. His