"Git busy, Ike, you're spokesman," he cried. "Git on with the
presentation--ladle out the ad--dress. You're kind o' lookin'
foolish."

He followed up his words with his unpleasant laugh, and it was the
sting the youthful leader needed.

He turned fiercely on the speaker, his momentary paralysis all
vanished.

"Ef I'm spokesman," he cried, "guess we don't need no buttin' in from
Beasley Melford." Then he turned again quickly. "Astin' your pardon,
miss," he added apologetically.

"That's all right," said Joan, smiling amiably. "What are you
'spokesman' for?"

The boy grinned foolishly.

"Can't rightly say, missie." Then he jerked his head in his comrades'
direction. "Guess if you was to ast _them_, they'd call theirselves
_men_."

"I didn't say 'who,' I said 'what,'" Joan protested, with a laugh at
his desperately serious manner.

"'What?'" he murmured, smearing his dirty forehead with a horny hand
in the effort of his task. Then he brightened. "Why, gener'ly
speakin'," he went on, with sudden enthusiasm, "they ain't much
better'n skippin' sheep. Y' see they want to but darsent.
So--wal--they jest set me up to sling the hot air."

The girl looked appealingly at the rough faces for assistance. But
instead of help she only beheld an expression of general discontent
turned on the unconscious back of the spokesman. And coming back to
the boy she pursued the only course possible.

"I--I don't think I quite understand," she said.

Ike readily agreed with her.

"I'm durned sure you can't," he cried heartily. "They jest think it a
rotten kind of a job handin' a red-ha'r'd gal a few words an' an
a'mighty fine hunk o' gold. That's cos they ain't been dragged up jest
right. You can't expect elegant feedin' at a hog trough. Now it's kind
o' diff'rent wi' me. I----"

"Oh, quit," cried the sharp voice of the exasperated Abe Allinson. And
there was no doubt but he was speaking for the rest of the audience.

Pete followed him in a tone of equal resentment.

"That ain't no sort o' way ad--dressin' a leddy," he said angrily.

"Course it ain't," sneered Beasley. "Ther's sure bats roostin' in your
belfry, Ike."

The boy jumped round on the instant. His good-nature could stand the
jibes of his comrades generally, but Beasley's sneers neither he nor
any one else could endure.

"Who's that yappin'?" the youngster cried, glowering into the
speaker's face. "That the feller Buck called an outlaw passon?" he
demanded. His