ught into contact with
Jake. When he got back from his ride into the foot-hills, the
"broncho-busting" carnival was in full swing; but he was fated to have
no share in it. Jacob Smith was waiting for him with a message from
Julian Marbolt; his orders were peremptory. He was to leave at once
for Whitewater, to make preparations for the reception of the young
horses now being broken for the troops. The rancher made his meaning
quite plain. And Tresler was quick to understand that this was simply
to get him out of the way until such time as Jake's temper had cooled
and the danger of a further rupture was averted.

He received his instructions without comment. It was rough on his
mare, but as the Lady Jezebel was fond of giving hard knocks, she must
not mind if she received a similar treatment in return. And so he
went, much to the disquiet of Joe Nelson, and with a characteristic
admonition from Arizona. That individual had just finished thrashing a
bull-headed young broncho with a quirt, because he wouldn't move from
the spot where he had been saddled, when Tresler came up. The lean man
was breathing hard as he rested, and he panted his farewell huskily.

"Kep y'r gun good an' handy," he said. "Et's mighty good company, if
et don't git gassin' wi'out you ast it a question."

In this case, however, there was no need for the advice. The journey
was a peaceful relief after the storms of Mosquito Bend. Tresler
transacted his business, the horses arrived, were delivered to the
authorities, and he witnessed the military methods of dealing with
their remounts, which was a wonderful example of patience and
moderation. Then he set out for the ranch again, in company with Raw
Harris and Lew Cawley--the two men who had brought the band into the
town.

His return to Mosquito Bend was very different from his first coming.
It seemed to him as if a lifetime had passed since he had been
ridiculed about his riding-breeches by all who met him. So much had
happened since then. Now he was admittedly a full-blown prairie man,
with much to learn, perhaps, but garbed like the other cowpunchers
with him, in moleskin and buckskin, Mexican spurs, and slouch hat; his
gun-belt slantwise on his hips, and his leather chapps creaking as he
rode. He was no longer "the guy with the pants" he had been when he
first entered the land of cattle, and somehow he felt glad at the
metamorphosis. It brought him nearer to the land, which, with all its
roughne