bird hair and them big blue eyes . . .

"For a two-bit feed and a two-bit smile . . ."

The song was interrupted by the appearance of Corliss, who swung to the
seat and took the reins.

"I'll jog 'em for a while," he said as Shoop climbed beside him. "Go
ahead, Bud. Don't mind me."

Shoop laughed and gestured over his shoulder. "Chance, there, is
sleepin' with both fists this lovely mornin'. Wonder how Sun is makin'
it?"

"We'll find out," said Corliss, shaking his head.

"Believe us! For we're goin' to town! Say, ain't you kind of offerin'
Jim Banks a chance to get you easy?"

"If he wants to. If he locked Sundown up, he made the wrong move."

"It's easy!" said Shoop, gesturing toward the Loring rancho as they
passed. "Goin' to bush at the water-hole to-night?"

"No. We'll go through."

Shoop whistled. "Suits me! And I reckon the team is good for it."

He glanced sideways at Corliss, who sat with eyes fixed straight ahead.
The cattle-man's face was expressionless. He was thinking hard and
fast, but chose to mask it.

Suddenly Shoop, who had watched him some little time, burst into song.
"Suits me!" he reiterated, more or less ambiguously, by the way, for he
had just concluded another ornate stanza of the "Biscuit-shooter" lyric.

"It's a real song," remarked Corliss.

"Well, now!" exclaimed Shoop. And thereafter he also became silent,
knowing from experience that when Corliss had anything worth while to
say, he would say it.

About noon they reached the water-hole where Corliss spent some time
examining the fences and inspecting the outbuildings.

"She's in right good shape yet," commented Shoop.

"The title has reverted to the State. It's queer Loring hasn't tried
to file on it."

"Mebby he's used his homestead right a'ready," suggested Shoop. "But
Nell Loring could file."

They climbed back into the buckboard. Again Shoop began a stanza of
his ditty. He seemed well pleased about something. Possibly he
realized that his employer's attitude had changed; that he had at last
awakened to the obvious necessity for doing something. As Corliss put
the team to a brisk trot the foreman's song ran high. Action was his
element. Inactivity tended to make him more or less cynical, and ate
into his tobacco money.

Suddenly Corliss turned to him. "Bud, I'm going to homestead that
ranch."

"Whoop!" cried the foreman. "First shot at the buck!"

"I'm going to put Sundown on it, fo