s; boxes, harness,
tangled bits of wire. Once there had been a fence; a sort of picket
fence of little saplings, but wild bronchos had kicked it to pieces and
range steers had straggled unscarred across its scattered remnants.

Forward, and to the left, was the corral; mill slabs on end, or fences
of lodge-pole pine; a corner somewhat covered in, offering vague
protection from the weather. The upper poles were worn thin with the
cribbing of many horses.

The sunlight bathed the scene; nursed it in a soft, warm silence. The
desertion seemed absolute; the silence was the silence of the unspoken
places. But suddenly it was broken by a stamping in the covered part
of the corral, and a man's voice saying, "Hip, there; whoa, you cayuse;
get under your saddle! Sleepin' against a post all day, you
sloppy-eye. Hip, come to it!"

Horse and rider dashed into the sunlight. The boy--for he was no more
than a boy--sat the beast as though born to it, his lithe frame taking
every motion of his mount as softly as a good boat rides the sea. His
red shirt and thick hairy schaps could not disguise the lean
muscularity of his figure; the broad felt hat, and the revolver at his
belt, gave just the touch of romance. With a yell at his horse he
snatched the hat from his head, turning to the sun a smooth, brown face
and a mane of dark hair, and slapped the horse across the flank with
his crumpled headgear. At the signal the animal sprang into the air,
then dashed at a gallop down the roadway, bearing the boy as
unconcerned as a flower on its stem.

Suddenly he brought his horse to a stop; swung about, and rode back at
a gentle canter. A few yards from the house he again spurred him to a
gallop, and, leaning far down by the animal's side, deftly picked a
bottle from among the grass. Then he circled about, repeating this
operation as often as his eye fell on a bottle, until he had
half-a-dozen; then down the road again, carefully setting a bottle on
each post of the fence that skirted it to the right.

Again he came back to the house, but, when he turned, his eye was on
the row of posts, and his right hand lay on the grip of his revolver.
Again his sharp yell broke the silence and the horse dashed forward as
though shot from a gun. Down the road they went until within a rod of
the first bottle; then there was a flash in the sunlight, and to the
clatter of the horse's hoofs came the crack-crack of the revolver. Two
bottles shiv