m. Give him all the
information you can regarding the water, and inquire if this is one of
Lovell's herds. That will put you on a chatting basis, and then lead up
to your errand. Tell him that you are running a trail hospital, and that
you have a wounded man named Quince Forrest at your camp, and ask the
foreman to come up and see him. Once you get him here, your work is
over, except going back after the cow."

Dell was impatient to be off, and started for the opening. "Hold on,"
commanded Forrest, "or I'll put a rope on you. Now, ride slowly, let
your horse set his own pace, and don't come back without your man. Make
out that I'm badly wounded, and that you feel uneasy that blood
poisoning may set in."

The messenger lost no time in getting away. Once out of sight of the
tent, Dell could not resist the temptation to gallop his mount over
level places. Carrying the weight of a boy was nothing to the horse, and
before half an hour had passed, the ford and trail came in view of the
anxious courier. Halting in order to survey the horizon, the haze and
heat-waves of summer so obstructed his view that every object looked
blurred and indistinct. Even the dust cloud was missing; and pushing on
a mile farther, he reined in again. Now and then in the upper sky, an
intervening cloud threw a shadow over the plain, revealing objects more
distinctly. For a moment one rested over the trail crossing, and like
prophecy fulfilled, there was the lone horseman at the ford!

In the waste places it is a pleasure to unexpectedly meet a fellow
being. Before being observed, Dell rode within hailing distance,
greeting, and man and boy were soon in friendly converse. There was
water sufficient for all needs, the herd required no pilot, the summons
found a ready response, and the two were soon riding up the Beaver in
a jog trot.

The gait admitted of free conversation, and the new foreman soon had
Dell on the defensive. "I always hate to follow a Lovell outfit," said
the stranger regretfully; "they're always in trouble. Old man Don's a
nice enough man, but he sure works sorry outfits on the trail. I've been
expecting to hear something like this. If it isn't rebranding their
saddle stock with nigger brands, it's sure to be something worse. And
now that flat-headed Quince Forrest plows a fire-guard down his own leg
with a six-shooter! Well, wouldn't that sour sweet milk!"

"Oh, it wasn't his fault," protested Dell; "he only loaned his pistol,