od cook, a clean cook, swiftest of all cooks,
Enriquez--also despot and holy terror as a side line. Henry was the
human hangnail. It is a curious thing that all round-up cooks are
cranks; a fact which favors reflection. If it be found that cooking
and ferocity stand in the relation of cause to effect, a new light is
thrown on an old question.

The last Dutch oven was stowed away, the lid of the chuck box snapped
shut and locked. Johnny tossed the few remaining beds up to the cook.

"Do we fill the barrel here, Henry?"

"No. Dees water muddy. Preisser Lake she am deep and clean. De company
ees buil' a dam dere, yes. Han' me dees lines. You Mag! Jake! Rattle
yo' hocks!"

With creaking of harness and groaning of axle, the chuck wagon led off
on a grass-grown road winding away to the northwest, a faint track
used only by the round-up; travel kept to the old Santa Fe trail, to
the west, beyond the railroad. Johnny started the other team.
Unguided, the bed wagon jounced and bumped over grassy hummocks until
it reached the old road and turned in contentedly at the tail of the
chuck wagon. The sleeping wrangler mumbled, rolled precariously on his
high lurching bed, and settled back to sleep.

Johnny laughed and rode ahead to help Pat. They drove the horses in a
wide detour round the slow-grazing day herd. But the chuck wagon held
the right of way over everything; when it came to pass the herd an
hour or two later, it would be for the herd to swerve aside.

The sun was high and hot now; Preisser Hill, a thin long shadow, rose
dim above the plain; Upham tower and tank loomed high and spectral,
ahead and at the left.

"How do I get from Upham to the river, Pat? I'm new to this country."

"Wagon road due west to MacCleod's Pass."

"Can't see any pass from here."

"Naw. You slip into fold between the hills, and twist round like a
figure three. Then you come to a big open park and MacCleod's Tank.
Three draws run down from the park to the river. 'Pache canyon, the
biggest, runs north to nowhere; Redgate, on the left, twists round to
Garfield. Wagon road goes down Redgate. And Deadman Draw, in between,
bears due west and heap down, short and sweet. Riding?"

"Yep. Hillsboro. The middle draw will be the one for me, then."

By ten o'clock they watered the horse herd at Preisser Lake; the
wagons toiled far behind. Half a mile away they picked the camp site,
with a little ridge for wind-break, soapweeds to tie night horses t