PTER I

IN THE LAND OF THE COWBOY

"What's that?"

"Guns, I reckon."

"Sounds to me as if the town were being attacked. Just like war time,
isn't it?"

"Never having been to war, I can't say. But it's a noise all right."

The freckle-faced boy, sitting on his pony with easy confidence,
answered his companion's questions absently. After a careless glance up
the street, he turned to resume his study of the noisy crowds that were
surging back and forth along the main street of San Diego, Texas.

"Yes, it's a noise. But what is it all about?"

"Fourth of July, Ned. Don't you hear?"

"Hear it, Tad? I should say I do hear it. Yet I must confess that it is
a different sort of racket from any I've ever heard up North on the
Fourth. Is this the way they celebrate it down here?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Why, a fellow might imagine that a band of wild Indians were tearing
down on him. Here they come! Look out! Me for a side street!"

The little Texas town was dressed in its finest, in honor of the great
national holiday, and the inhabitants for many miles around had ridden
in at the first streak of dawn, that they might miss none of the frolic.

A rapid explosion of firearms accompanied by a chorus of wild yells and
thrilling whoops, had caused Ned Rector to utter the exclamation of
alarm. As he did so, he whirled his pony about, urging the little animal
into a side street so that he might be out of the way of the body of men
whom he saw rushing down upon them on galloping ponies.

"Hurry, Tad!" he called from the protection of the side street.

That others in the street had heard, and seen as well, was evident from
the frantic haste with which they scrambled for the sidewalk, crowding
those already there over yard fences, into stores and stairways in an
effort to get clear of the roadway. A sudden panic had seized them, for
well did they know the meaning of the shooting and the shouting.

A band of wild, uncontrollable cowboys, free for the time from the
exacting work of the range, were sweeping down on the town, determined
to do their part in the observance of the day.

Yet, Tad Butler, the freckle-faced boy, remained where he was
undisturbed by the uproar, finding great interest in the excited throngs
that were hurrying to cover. Nor did he appear to be alarmed when, a
moment later, he found himself almost the sole occupant of the street at
that point, with his pony backed up against the curbing, tossin