he crisis to be a
strain upon their sobered nerves. They glanced up from their plates, and
down; along to Dean Drake eating his hearty porridge, and back at one
another, and at the hungry, well-occupied strangers.

"Say, we don't want trouble," they began to the strangers.

"Course you don't. Breakfast's what you're after."

"Oh, well, you'd have got gay. A man gets gay."

"Sure."

"Mr. Drake," said Half-past Full, sweating with his effort, "we were
sorry while we was a-fogging you up."

"Yes," said Drake. "You must have been just overcome by contrition."

A large laugh went up from the visitors, and the meal was finished
without further diplomacy.

"One matter, Mr. Drake," stammered Half-past Full, as the party rose.
"Our jobs. We're glad to pay for any things what got sort of broke."

"Sort of broke," repeated the boy, eyeing him. "So you want to hold your
jobs?"

"If--" began the buccaroo, and halted.

"Fact is, you're a set of cowards," said Drake, briefly. "I notice
you've forgot to remove that whiskey jug." The demijohn still stood
by the great fireplace. Drake entered and laid hold of it, the crowd
standing back and watching. He took it out, with what remained in its
capacious bottom, set it on a stump, stepped back, levelled his gun, and
shattered the vessel to pieces. The whiskey drained down, wetting the
stump, creeping to the ground.

Much potency lies in the object-lesson, and a grin was on the faces of
all present, save Uncle Pasco's. It had been his demijohn, and when the
shot struck it he blinked nervously.

"You ornery old mink!" said Drake, looking at him. "You keep to the
jewelry business hereafter."

The buccaroos grinned again. It was reassuring to witness wrath turn
upon another.

"You want to hold your jobs?" Drake resumed to them. "You can trust
yourselves?"

"Yes, sir," said Half-past Full.

"But I don't trust you," stated Drake, genially; and the buccaroos'
hopeful eyes dropped. "I'm going to divide you," pursued the new
superintendent. "Split you far and wide among the company's ranches.
Stir you in with decenter blood. You'll go to White-horse ranch, just
across the line of Nevada," he said to Half-past Full. "I'm tired of the
brothers Drinker. You'll go--let's see--"

Drake paused in his apportionment, and a sleigh came swiftly round the
turn, the horse loping and lathery.

"What vas dat shooting I hear joost now?" shouted Max Vogel, before he
could arrive. He did no