ped the mechanical player,
and thrilled to the shuffle of high-heeled boots. Contingent after
contingent came, danced, and departed joyously, leaving Bud short on
rations, but happy that he could entertain so royally. Finally the
novelty wore off, and Bud was left with his Airedale, his saddle-ponies,
and the hand-carved piano.

But Bud had profited by the innovation. An Easterner sojourning with Bud
for a season, had taught him to play two tunes--"Annie Laurie" and
"Dixie." "Real hand-made music," Bud was wont to remark. And with these
tunes at his disposal he was more than content. Many a long evening he
sat with his huge bulk swaying in the light of the hanging lamp as he
wandered around Maxwelton's braes in search of the true Annie Laurie; or
hopped with heavy sprightliness across the sandy bottoms of Dixie, while
Bondsman, the patient Airedale, sat on his haunches and accompanied Bud
with dismal energy.

Bud was not a little proud of his accomplishment. The player was all
right, but it lacked the human touch. Even when an occasional Apache
strayed in and borrowed tobacco or hinted at a meal, Bud was not above
entertaining the wondering red man with music. And Bud disliked Apaches.

And during these latter days Bud had had plenty of opportunity to
indulge himself in music. For hours he would sit and gently strike the
keys, finding unexpected harmonies that thrilled and puzzled him. The
discords didn't count. And Bondsman would hunch up close with watchful
eye and one ear cocked, waiting for the familiar strains of "Annie
Laurie" or "Dixie." He seemed to consider these tunes a sort of
accompaniment to his song. If he dared to howl when Bud was
extemporizing, Bud would rebuke him solemnly, explaining that it was not
considered polite in the best circles to interrupt a soloist. And an
evening was never complete without "Annie Laurie," and "Dixie," with
Bondsman's mournful contralto gaming ascendance as the evening
progressed.

"That dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous," Bud was wont to
remark, as he rose from his labors and prepared for bed. "There I was
huntin' around for that chord I lit on the other night and almost
findin' it, when he has to howl like a coyote with a sore throat and
spile the whole thing. I ought to learned more tunes."

* * * * *

It was almost dusk when Lorry topped the trail that led across the Blue
Mesa to Bud's cabin. Gray Leg pricked his ears, and j