ame hell pop all time now."

And he went about his preparations for breakfast in strange, complacent
silence, making his coffee twice as strong as he had made it for a
year, the way Red Reckless liked it.

Garth Conway breakfasted alone. A glance out toward the bunk house
against the fringe of trees at the far side of the clearing showed him
that there was no smoke there, that the men were not about. A little
angry spot glowing on each cheek he stepped out upon the porch as
though to bring these slumbering men to a swift awakening. But he
turned instead and came back into the dining room.

"You Chink fool," he flung at Rose-bud when his cup of coffee was set
in front of him. "I don't drink ink for breakfast. What's the matter
with you?"

Rose-bud wrapped his body in his long arms and his face in its childish
smile, lifted his vague hints of eyebrows archly and nodded toward
Wayne's room.

"Led, him come back," he said with unutterable sweetness. "Him like
coffee all same black as hell. Him boss now? Too bad. You damn fine
boss, Mis' Garth."

And he shuffled back to the stove leaving Garth scowling angrily after
him.

Garth breakfasted in morose silence, disregarding the many joyful
glances which Rose-bud directed upon him. Afterward he took out his
pipe and stuffed it full with an impatient finger. The hesitation
which had marked him last night seemed to grow with the slow hours of
the idle morning. He had long been absolute, unquestioned dictator of
the destiny of the Bar L-M, and he had grown naturally into the way of
regarding it half with the eye of its permanent master. It had not
only been his entirely so far as management was concerned for more than
twelve months, but there had been always the possibility that it would
be his to have and to hold, to do with as he thought best, if Wayne
should not come back. But Wayne had come back. The coffee was
eloquent of the fact; the slothfulness of the bunk house shouted it in
his ears. He felt a sense of irritation, of injustice.

"The men will sleep until noon," he growled savagely. "Good heavens,
is he crazy? Must he come back and chuck the whole thing to the dogs?"

There was nothing to do but smoke and wait for the next absurdity of a
man who had played ducks and drakes with everything he had ever had,
who was too big a fool to see--or care, which was it?--what was going
to happen when he had run to the end of his rope.

Wayne, rosy from