fit shore likes the taste of its own beef. If any man fails to
agree with that, I want him to speak up right now."

Cheyenne pinched out the fire in his cigarette and flipped the stub
away from him. He did not look at Tom when he said:

"NL beef shore suits me. I don't know about any other brand. I ain't
et none to judge by."

"You bet your life you ain't," snapped Tom, as he turned away. "When
you sample another brand you won't be drawin' wages with this
outfit."

He rode away to the wagon, where a fire was already burning and the
branding irons heating. Cheyenne, with his hat pulled down over his
forehead so that he looked out from under the brim that shaded his
face, watched Tom queerly, a corner of his lips lifted in a half smile
that was not pleasant.

CHAPTER FIVE

THEY RIDE AND THEY DO NOT TELL WHERE

Aleck Douglas, having questioned the crew as Tom had suggested, and
having inexorably ridden through the herd--in search of brands that
had been "worked," or for other evidence of the unlawful acquisition
of wealth, rather than in hope of finding his spotted yearling--rode
away with the parting threat that he would "gang to the shuriff and
hae a talk wi' him." Tom had advised him of one or two other
destinations where he hoped the Douglas would arrive without any delay
whatever, and the branding proceeded rather slowly with the crew three
men short.

Duke and Mel Wilson rode in about three o'clock with a few cows and
calves which they had gleaned from some brushy draw to cover their
real errand. By the time they had snatched a hasty meal at the wagon a
mile away, and had caught up fresh horses, the afternoon's work was
nearly over. A little earlier than usual, Tom kicked the branding fire
apart, ordered the herd thrown on water and grazed back to the
bed-ground that had been used during round-up time ever since he could
remember, and rode slowly toward camp, whither the lucky ones not on
herd were speeding.

Cheyenne, Tom observed, seemed in a greater hurry than the others, and
he beckoned to him a slim, swarthy-skinned youth who answered to the
euphonious name of Sam Pretty Cow, who was three-quarters Indian and
forgiven the taint for the ability to ride anything he ever tried to
ride, rope anything he ever swung his loop at, and for his unfailing
good humor which set him far above his kind.

"Cheyenne's in a hurry to-night, Sam."

"Yeah. Ride hell out of his horse. I dunno, me." Sam grinned