o cars
were yet on the way, he clanked into Rusty Brown's place after his
deserters. One was laid blissfully out in the little back room,
breathing loudly, dead to the world and the exigencies of life; him
Chip passed up with a snort of disgust. The other was sitting in a
corner, with his hat balanced precariously over his left ear, gazing
superciliously upon his fellows and, incidentally, winning everything
in sight. He leered up at Chip and fingered ostentatiously his three
stacks of blues.

"What'n thunder do I want to go t' camp for?" he demanded, in answer to
Chip's suggestion. "Forty dollars a month following your trail don't
look good t' me no more. I'm four hundred dollars t' the good sence
last night, and takin' all comers. Good money's just fallin' my way.
I don't guess I hanker after any more night guardin', thank ye."

"Suit yourself," said Chip coldly, and turned away.

Argument was useless and never to his liking. The problem now was to
find two men who could take their places, and that was not so easily
solved. A golden-haired, pink-cheeked, blue-eyed young fellow in
dainty silk negligee, gray trousers, and russet leather belt, with a
panama hat and absurdly small tan shoes, followed him outside.

"If you're looking for men," he announced musically, "I'm open for
engagements."

Chip looked down at him tolerantly. "Much obliged, but I'm not getting
up a garden-party," he informed him politely, and took a step. He was
not in the mood to find amusement in the situation.

The immaculate one showed some dimples that would have been distracting
in the face of a woman. "And I ain't looking for a job leading cows to
water," he retorted. "Yuh shouldn't judge a man by his clothes,
old-timer."

"I don't--a man!" said Chip pointedly. "Run away and play. I'll tell
you what, sonny, I'm not running a kindergarten. Every man I hire has
got man's work to do. Wait till you're grown up; as it is, you'd last
quick on round-up, and that's a fact."

"Oh! it is, eh? Say, did yuh ever hear uh old Eagle Creek Smith, of
the Cross L, or Rowdy Vaughan, or a fellow up on Milk River they call
Pink?"

"I'd tell a man!" Chip turned toward him again. "At least I've heard
of Eagle Creek Smith, and of Pink--bronco-fighter, they say, and a
little devil. Why?"

The immaculate one lifted his panama, ran his fingers through his
curls, and smiled demurely. "Nothing in particular--only, I'm Pink!"

Chip stared