is cigarette; and Pink, after
one comprehending look at the slip of paper, doubled up over his
saddle-horn and shouted with glee--for the check was written: "Pay to
the order of Ananias Green."

"And I've got to sign myself a liar, or I don't collect no money,"
sighed Andy. "That's what I call tough luck, by gracious!"

* * * * *

BLINK

The range-land was at its unpicturesque worst. For two days the wind
had raged and ranted over the hilltops, and whooped up the long
coulees, so that tears stood in the eyes of the Happy Family when they
faced it; impersonal tears blown into being by the very force of the
wind. Also, when they faced it they rode with bodies aslant over their
saddle-horns and hats pulled low over their streaming eyes, and with
coats fastened jealously close. If there were buttons enough, well and
good; if not, a strap cinched tightly about the middle was considered
pretty lucky and not to be despised. Though it was early September,
"sour-dough" coats were much in evidence, for the wind had a chill way
of searching to the very marrow--and even a good, sheepskin-lined
"sour-dough" was not always protection sufficient.

When the third day dawned bleakly, literally blown piecemeal from out
darkness as bleak, the Happy Family rose shiveringly and with sombre
disapproval of whatever met their blood-shot eyes; dressed hurriedly
in the chill of flapping tent and went out to stagger drunkenly over
to where Patsy, in the mess-tent, was trying vainly to keep the
biscuits from becoming dust-sprinkled, and sundry pans and tins from
taking jingling little excursions on their own account. Over the brow
of the next ridge straggled the cavvy, tails and manes whipping in the
gale, the nighthawk swearing so that his voice came booming down to
camp. Truly, the day opened inauspiciously enough for almost any dire
ending.

As further evidence, saddling horses for circle resolved itself, as
Weary remarked at the top of his voice to Pink, at his elbow, into "a
free-for-all broncho busting tournament." For horses have nerves, and
nothing so rasps the nerves of man or beast as a wind that never stops
blowing; which means swaying ropes and popping saddle leather, and
coat-tails flapping like wet sheets on a clothes line. Horses do not
like these things, and they are prone to eloquent manifestations of
their disapproval.

Over by the bed-wagon, a man they called Blink, for want of a b