ng silence, broken only by the crackle of the logs in the
camp-fire and the night sounds of the lonely plain. The leaping flames
showed a group of thoughtful faces. Finally, Costigan broke the silence
with:

"Begorra, 'tis some av thim 'ud be doin' well to be lukin' to their
music-lessons about here, Oi'm thinkin', afther th' day's wurruk."

The Irishman, with his instinctive loquacity, had expressed what none of
the rest would have considered politic to hint. It was like the giving way
of the pebble that starts the avalanche. Soon they were deep in tales of
lynchings. Peter knew only too well the trend of their talk, the "XXX" men
were feeling the public pulse, as it were. Now, according to the unwritten
code of the plains, lynching was "meet, right, just, and available" for
the cattle-thief. And Peter felt himself false to his creed, false to his
employer, false to himself, in seeking to evade the question. And yet that
pitiful cabin, the white-faced woman running to the door so often that she
knew not what she did, and the little rosy boy, who had put out his arms
so trustfully! Peter broke into their grewsome yarning. "Lord, but you're
like a lot of old women just come from a funeral!"

"Whin the carpse died hard, and th' wake was a success." Costigan turned
over. "Werra, werra, but we'll be seein' fairies the night!"

A "XXX" man turned his head with a deliberate slowness and regarded Peter
with narrowing eyes: "If the subject of cattle-thieves and their
punishment is unpleasant to the gentleman from New York, perhaps he will
favor us with something more cheerful." It was the same man who had given
the two definitions of the "H L" brand that morning at the round-up.

"Delighted," said Peter, affecting not to notice the significance of the
man's remark. "Did you ever hear of the time that Tony Neville was burned
with snow?"

The "XXX" man yawned long and audibly. No one seemed especially interested
in Tony Neville's having been burned with snow, but Peter struck out
manfully, just in time to head off a man who said that he had seen Jim
Rodney or some one who looked like him, following the trail-herd.

"Once on a time, when it paid to be a cattle-man," began Peter, "there was
an outfit near Laramie that hailed from the United Kingdom, every mother's
son of them. A fine, manly lot of fellows, but wedded to calamity along of
their cooks--not the revered range article," and Peter waved his hand
towards the "W-squa