the truth of his observation, and
Creede's shoulders shook with laughter as he noted their killing
pace.

"I tumbled to the idee the minute I set eyes on that cow's horn," he
said. "It's like this. Every boss herder has a horn; if he gits into
trouble he blows it and all hands come a-runnin' to shoot holes in Mr.
Cowman--think I'll make one myself."

He halted behind a rock and scrutinized the approaching horsemen over
the top.

"That's Jasp, in front," he observed impersonally. "I wouldn't mind
ownin' that black mule of his'n, neither. We'll jest wait until they
dip down into the canyon and then double in back of him, and scare up
them _hombres_ over at the mouth of Hell's Hip Pocket. We want to git
'em started out of that. I believe you're right, though, Rufe--we can
run this bunch out without firin' a shot."

That evening after the day's riding Creede sat down on his heels by
the fire and heated the end of an iron rod. In his other hand he held
a horn, knocked from the bleaching skeleton of a steer that had died
by the water, and to its end where the tip had been sawed off he
applied the red-hot iron, burning a hole through to the hollow
centre.

"Jim," he said, turning to one of the Clark boys, "do you want a
little excitement to-morrow? Well then, you take this old horn and go
play hide 'n' seek with Jasp. Keep him chasin', and while the rest of
the boys are gatherin' cattle Rufe and me will move a few sheep."

"Well, say," broke in Ben Reavis impatiently, "where do us fellers
come in on this play? I thought there was goin' to be a few shap
lessons and a little night work."

"Well," responded the _rodeo_ boss philosophically, "any time you
fellers want to go up against them thirty-thirties you can do so. It's
your own funeral, and I'll promise to do the honors right. But I'm a
law-abidin' cuss myself. I'm all the law now, ever since I talked with
Jim Swope--it's the greatest graft they is."

He paused, busily scraping his horn with a piece of glass.

"They's no doubt about it, fellers," he said at last, "we've been slow
in the head. It's a wonder we ain't all of us makin' hat bands in
Yuma, by this time. I used to think that if you didn't like a
sheepman's looks the way to do was to wade in and work him over a
little; but that's a misdemeanor, and it don't go now. It took as good
a man as Rufe, here, to put me wise; but I leave my gun in camp after
this. I've got them Greasers buffaloed, anyhow, and Jas