trouble
here. Come on in and dance. That's yore job--to keep 'er moving
peaceable. I'll fire any man I ketch drinking Jumpoff booze. We've got
better at the ranch. Come on!"

He led the way and his men followed him,--not as though they were
particularly anxious to avoid trouble, but more like men who are
trained to obey implicitly a leader who has some definite purpose and
refuses to be turned from it. Lance, walking a few steps in the rear,
wondered at the discipline his father seemed to maintain without any
apparent effort.

"And they say the Lorrigans are a tough outfit!" he laughed, when he
had overtaken Tom. "Dad, you've got the bunch trained like soldiers. I
was more afraid our boys would rough things up than I was worried over
the stews."

"Shucks! When we rough things up, it's when _we_ want it rough. Al, he
was kinda excited. But at that, we may have to hogtie a few of them
smart Alecks from town, before we can dance peaceable."

Mary Hope, Lance discovered, was already in the schoolhouse. Also,
several of the intoxicated were there, and the quadrille was being
danced with so much zest that the whole building shook. That in itself
was not unusual--Black Rim dances usually did become rather boisterous
after supper--but just outside the door a bottle was being circulated
freely, and two or three men had started toward the cottonwood grove
for more. Duke, coming up to Lance where he stood in the doorway,
pulled him to one side, where they could not be overheard.

"There's going to be trouble here, sure's you're knee-high to a duck.
Dad won't let our bunch light into 'em, but they'll be fighting
amongst themselves inside an hour. You better slip it to the women
that the dance breaks up early. Give 'em a few more waltzes and
two-steps, Lance, and then make it Home-Sweet-Home, if you don't want
to muss up your nice city clothes," he added, with a laugh that was
not altogether friendly.

"Mussing up nice city clothes is my favorite pastime," Lance retorted,
and went inside again to see who was doing all the whooping. The chief
whooper, he discovered, was Bill Kennedy, the man whom he had very
nearly thrashed. Mary Hope was looking her Scotch primmest. Lance
measured the primness, saw that there was a vacant space beside her,
and made his precarious way toward it, circling the dancers who swung
close to the benches and trod upon the toes of the wall flowers in
their enthusiasm. He reached the vacant space and s