the night. The punchers unsaddled their worn mounts and drifted
to the camp-fire one by one. Ravenously they ate, then rolled up in their
blankets and fell asleep at once. To-night they had neither heart nor
energy for the gay badinage that usually flew back and forth.

Night was still heavy over the land when Uncle Ned's gong wakened them.
The moon was disappearing behind a scudding cloud, but stars could be
seen by thousands. Across the open plain a chill wind blew.

All was bustle and confusion, but out of the turmoil emerged order. The
wranglers, already fed, moved into the darkness to bring up the remuda.
Tin cups and plates rattled merrily. Tongues wagged. Bits of repartee,
which are the salt of the cowpuncher's life, were flung across the fire
from one; to another. Already the death of Tim McGrath was falling into
the background of their swift, turbulent lives. After all the cowboy dies
young. Tim's soul had wandered out across the great divide only a few
months before that of others among them.

Out of the mist emerged the desert, still gray and vague and without
detail. The day's work was astir once more. With the nickering of horses,
the bawling of cattle, and the shouts of men as an orchestral
accompaniment, light filtered into the valley for the drama of the new
sunrise. Once more the tireless riders swept into the mesquite through
the clutching cholla to comb another segment of country in search of the
beeves not yet reclaimed.

That day's drive brought practically the entire herd together again. A
few had not been recovered, but Webb set these down to profit and loss.
What he regretted most was that the cattle were not in as good condition
as they had been before the stampede.

The drover spent the next day cutting out the animals that did not belong
to him. Of these a good many had been collected in the round-up. It was
close to evening before the job was finished and the outfit returned to
camp.

Billie rode up to the wagon with the old man. Leaning against a saddle on
the ground, a flank steak in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other,
lounged Jim Clanton.

Webb, hard-eyed and stiff, looked at the young man, "Had a pleasant
vacation, Clanton?"

"I don't know as I would call it a vacation, Mr. Webb. I been attending
to some business," explained Jim.

"Yours or mine?"

"Yours an' mine."

"You've been gone forty-eight hours. The rest of us have worked our heads
off gettin' together the he