ailroad guy while he was b'iled, an' finally married a female
battle-axe, all inside o' two years. He's the hard luck champeen, though,
Charley is."

It had snowed heavily during the night. The day was "soft," in the phrase
of the pioneer. In places the ground was almost clear. In others the
drifts were deep. From a hillside they looked down into a grove of
cottonwoods that filled a small draw. Here the snow had blown in and was
heavy. Three elk were floundering in the white banks.

Dud waded in and shot two with his revolver. The third was a doe. The
cowponies snaked them out to the open.

"We'll take 'em with us to 'Leven Mile camp," Dud said. "Then we'll carry
'em back to the ranch to-morrow. The Slash Lazy D is needin' meat."

Harshaw had given orders that they were to spend the night at Eleven Mile
camp. The place was a deserted log cabin built by a trapper. Supplies
were kept there for the use of Slash Lazy D riders. Usually some of them
were there at least two or three nights a week. Often punchers from other
outfits put up at the shack. Range favors of this sort were taken as a
matter of course. If the cabin was empty the visiting cowboy helped
himself to food, fire, and shelter. It was expected of him that he would
cut a fresh supply of fuel to take the place of that he had used.

It was getting on toward dusk when they reached Eleven Mile. Bob made a
fire in the tin stove while Dud took care of the horses. He found flour
and lard[2] hanging in pails from the rafters. Coffee was in a tin under
the bunk.

Soon Dud joined him. They made their supper of venison, biscuits, and
coffee. Hollister had just lit a pipe and stretched himself on the bed
when the door opened and sixteen Ute bucks filed gravely in.

Colorow was the spokesman. "Hungry! Heap hungry!" he announced.

Hollister rolled out of the bunk promptly. "Here's where we go into the
barbecue business an' the Slash ranch loses them elk," he told Bob under
cover of replenishing the fire in the stove. "An' I can name two lads
who'll be lucky if they don't lose their scalps. These birds have been
drinkin'."

It took no wiseacre to divine the condition of the Indians. Their whiskey
breaths polluted the air of the cabin. Some of them swayed as they stood
or clutched at one another for support. Fortunately they were for the
moment in a cheerful rather than a murderous frame of mind. They chanted
what was gibberish to the two whites while the latter made