nd plunged into the thick of the cattle.

The white cow was her object. She swung the lasso, which caught one
horn and slipped off. The next throw encircled the forefeet and
the animal fell heavily. Santa made for it like a panther; but it
scrambled up and dashed against her, knocking her over like a blade of
grass.

Again she made her cast, while the aroused cattle milled around the
four sides of the corral in a plunging mass. This throw was fair; the
white cow came to earth again; and before it could rise Santa had made
the lasso fast around a post of the corral with a swift and simple
knot, and had leaped upon the cow again with the rawhide hobbles.

In one minute the feet of the animal were tied (no record-breaking
deed) and Santa leaned against the corral for the same space of time,
panting and lax.

And then she ran swiftly to her furnace at the gate and brought the
branding-iron, queerly shaped and white-hot.

The bellow of the outraged white cow, as the iron was applied, should
have stirred the slumbering auricular nerves and consciences of the
near-by subjects of the Nopalito, but it did not. And it was amid the
deepest nocturnal silence that Santa ran like a lapwing back to the
ranch-house and there fell upon a cot and sobbed--sobbed as though
queens had hearts as simple ranchmen's wives have, and as though she
would gladly make kings of prince-consorts, should they ride back
again from over the hills and far away.

In the morning the capable, revolvered youth and his _vaqueros_ set
forth, driving the bunch of Sussex cattle across the prairies to the
Rancho Seco. Ninety miles it was; a six days' journey, grazing and
watering the animals on the way.

The beasts arrived at Rancho Seco one evening at dusk; and were
received and counted by the foreman of the ranch.

The next morning at eight o'clock a horseman loped out of the brush
to the Nopalito ranch-house. He dismounted stiffly, and strode, with
whizzing spurs, to the house. His horse gave a great sigh and swayed
foam-streaked, with down-drooping head and closed eyes.

But waste not your pity upon Belshazzar, the flea-bitten sorrel.
To-day, in Nopalito horse-pasture he survives, pampered, beloved,
unridden, cherished record-holder of long-distance rides.

The horseman stumbled into the house. Two arms fell around his neck,
and someone cried out in the voice of woman and queen alike
"Webb--oh, Webb!"

"I was a skunk," said Webb Yeager.

"Hush,"