addressed remarks to Nels.

"Take off them blinders," said one.

"Nels, your eyes are shore bad," said another.

"You don't hit where you look."

"Nels, your left eye has sprung a limp."

"Why, you dog-goned old fule, you cain't hit thet bawl."

Nels essayed again, only to meet ignominious failure. Then carefully
he gathered himself together, gaged distance, balanced the club, swung
cautiously. And the head of the club made a beautiful curve round the
ball.

"Shore it's jest thet crooked club," he declared.

He changed clubs and made another signal failure. Rage suddenly
possessing him, he began to swing wildly. Always, it appeared, the
illusive little ball was not where he aimed. Stillwell hunched his huge
bulk, leaned hands on knees, and roared his riotous mirth. The cowboys
leaped up and down in glee.

"You cain't hit thet bawl," sang out one of the noisiest. A few more
whirling, desperate lunges on the part of Nels, all as futile as if
the ball had been thin air, finally brought to the dogged cowboy a
realization that golf was beyond him.

Stillwell bawled: "Oh, haw, haw, haw! Nels, you're--too old--eyes no
good!"

Nels slammed down the club, and when he straightened up with the red
leaving his face, then the real pride and fire of the man showed.
Deliberately he stepped off ten paces and turned toward the little mound
upon which rested the ball. His arm shot down, elbow crooked, hand like
a claw.

"Aw, Nels, this is fun!" yelled Stillwell.

But swift as a gleam of light Nels flashed his gun, and the report came
with the action. Chips flew from the golf-ball as it tumbled from the
mound. Nels had hit it without raising the dust. Then he dropped the
gun back in its sheath and faced the cowboys.

"Mebbe my eyes ain't so orful bad," he said, coolly, and started to walk
off.

"But look ah-heah, Nels," yelled Stillwell, "we come out to play
gol-lof! We can't let you knock the ball around with your gun. What'd
you want to get mad for? It's only fun. Now you an' Nick hang round
heah an' be sociable. We ain't depreciatin' your company none, nor your
usefulness on occasions. An' if you just hain't got inborn politeness
sufficient to do the gallant before the ladies, why, remember Stewart's
orders."

"Stewart's orders?" queried Nels, coming to a sudden halt.

"That's what I said," replied Stillwell, with asperity. "His orders.
Are you forgettin' orders? Wal, you're a fine cowboy. You an' Nick an'
Mont