they pounded one another hurtfully and
affectionately; they heaped upon one another's heads friendly curses
and obloquy; but they were polite to Curly. He saw it, and it stung
him as much as Ranse hoped it would.

Then came a night that brought a cold, wet norther. Wilson, the
youngest of the outfit, had lain in camp two days, ill with fever.
When Joe got up at daylight to begin breakfast he found Curly sitting
asleep against a wheel of the grub wagon with only a saddle blanket
around him, while Curly's blankets were stretched over Wilson to
protect him from the rain and wind.

Three nights after that Curly rolled himself in his blanket and went
to sleep. Then the other punchers rose up softly and began to make
preparations. Ranse saw Long Collins tie a rope to the horn of a
saddle. Others were getting out their six-shooters.

"Boys," said Ranse, "I'm much obliged. I was hoping you would. But I
didn't like to ask."

Half a dozen six-shooters began to pop--awful yells rent the air--Long
Collins galloped wildly across Curly's bed, dragging the saddle after
him. That was merely their way of gently awaking their victim. Then
they hazed him for an hour, carefully and ridiculously, after the code
of cow camps. Whenever he uttered protest they held him stretched over
a roll of blankets and thrashed him woefully with a pair of leather
leggings.

And all this meant that Curly had won his spurs, that he was receiving
the puncher's accolade. Nevermore would they be polite to him. But he
would be their "pardner" and stirrup-brother, foot to foot.

When the fooling was ended all hands made a raid on Joe's big
coffee-pot by the fire for a Java nightcap. Ranse watched the new knight
carefully to see if he understood and was worthy. Curly limped with his
cup of coffee to a log and sat upon it. Long Collins followed and sat by
his side. Buck Rabb went and sat at the other. Curly--grinned.

And then Ranse furnished Curly with mounts and saddle and equipment,
and turned him over to Buck Rabb, instructing him to finish the job.

Three weeks later Ranse rode from the ranch into Rabb's camp, which
was then in Snake Valley. The boys were saddling for the day's ride.
He sought out Long Collins among them.

"How about that bronco?" he asked.

Long Collins grinned.

"Reach out your hand, Ranse Truesdell," he said, "and you'll touch
him. And you can shake his'n, too, if you like, for he's plumb white
and there's none better in no c