ng on with both arms around the horn of the saddle.

"Get him off!" cried Bud in a high pitched voice, as he recognized the
pony to which the strange lad was clinging. "Tartar will kill him!
Get him off!"

CHAPTER II

A CALL FOR HELP

Without waiting for his pony to come to a stop, Bud fairly flung
himself out of the saddle, and with his rope, or lariat, coiled on his
arm he ran toward the corral.

"What's matter?" demanded Babe Milton, the assistant foreman, pausing
in his repeated exclamations of:

"Some ridin'! Some ridin'!"

"Don't you fellows know any better than to let a tenderfoot ride
Tartar?" cried Bud. "That horse is next door to an outlaw, and you
wouldn't get on him yourself, Babe!"

"You said an earful!" came the quick response. "I wouldn't!"

"Then how'd you come to let this fellow on? Who is he, anyhow?" cried
Bud, as he slipped through a hunch of cowboys who opened to let him
pass.

"Fresh tenderfoot," some one said.

"He would ride!" added another.

"Says he's your cousin," added a third ranch hand.

"My _cousin_!" cried Bud. Then he did not stop to do any more talking.
He leaped the fence of the corral, and, as he did so he became aware of
another stranger--a tenderfoot like the lad on Tartar--standing within
the fenced-off place. This lad, who bore all the marks of a
newly-arrived Easterner, was rather short and stout--not to say fat.
He stood beside an ancient and venerable cow pony, which was never
ridden when there was anything else in the corral to throw a saddle on.
And this lad was gazing with fear-widened eyes at the figure of the
other lad.

"Get off, Nort! Get off!" cried this stout lad.

"Don't tell him to do that!" ordered Bud sharply. "He'll break his
neck sure! Stick, and I'll rope Tartar!" he shouted, trying to make
his voice heard above the thunder of the feet of the half-maddened
horse, and the now somewhat subdued shouts of the cowboys.

Bud Merkel knew his business. He had not lived all his sixteen years
on his father's ranch not to learn how to throw a skillful rope, and he
now took his position just within the corral, and at a place where he
could intercept the dashing outlaw, Tartar, as the animal came around
again with the flapping lad clinging to his back.

"Can you manage, Bud?" called Slim, from his cross seat in his saddle,
where he was looking on.

"I'll get him!" was the grim answer.

Many thoughts were shooting through the mind of