kerin' after."

"Oh, he wouldn't stop th' cows that way, Skinny; he was only afoolin',"
exclaimed Connors meekly.

"Foolin' yore gran'mother! That there bunch'll do anything if we wasn't
lookin'," hotly replied Skinny.

"That's shore nuff gospel, Thomp. They's sore fer mor'n one thing. They
got aplenty when Buck went on th' warpath, an they's hankerin' to git
square," remarked Johnny Nelson, stealing the pie, a rare treat, of his
neighbor when that unfortunate individual was not looking. He had
it halfway to his mouth when its former owner, Jimmy Price, a boy of
eighteen, turned his head and saw it going.

"Hi-yi! Yu clay-bank coyote, drap thet pie! Did yu ever see such a
son-of-a-gun fer pie?" he plaintively asked Red Connors, as he grabbed
a mighty handful of apples and crust. "Pie'll kill yu some day, yu
bob-tailed jack! I had an uncle that died onct. He et too much pie an'
he went an' turned green, an so'll yu if yu don't let it alone."

"Yu ought'r seed th' pie Johnny had down in Eagle Flat," murmured Lanky
Smith reminiscently. "She had feet that'd stop a stampede. Johnny
was shore loco about her. Swore she was the finest blossom that
ever growed." Here he choked and tears of laughter coursed down his
weather-beaten face as he pictured her. "She was a dainty Mexican, about
fifteen han's high an' about sixteen han's around. Johnny used to chalk
off when he hugged her, usen't yu, Johnny? One night when he had got
purty well around on th' second lap he run inter a feller jest startin'
out on his fust. They hain't caught that Mexican yet."

Nelson was pelted with everything in sight. He slowly wiped off the
pie crust and bread and potatoes. "Anybody'd think I was a busted grub
wagon," he grumbled. When he had fished the last piece of beef out of
his ear he went out and offered to stand treat. As the round-up was
over, they slid into their saddles and raced for Cowan's saloon at
Buckskin.

CHAPTER II. The Rashness of Shorty

Buckskin was very hot; in fact it was never anything else. Few people
were on the streets and the town was quiet. Over in the Houston hotel
a crowd of cowboys was lounging in the barroom. They were very quiet--a
condition as rare as it was ominous. Their mounts, twelve in all, were
switching flies from their quivering skins in the corral at the rear.
Eight of these had a large C 80 branded on their flanks; the other four,
a Double Arrow.

In the barroom a slim, wiry man was looking ou