The last place in the world for a humanitarian is around a cow camp, for everything there seems to savor of cruelty and blood. The only anti-cruelty-to-animals man who ever made a winning in the cattle business was good old Dr. Maverick, of Texas, who, when they made up the first brand book, swore he could not bring himself to cut an ear or burn a brand and craved the privilege of letting his cattle run unmarked. So, when it came to the round-up, the old doctor received his reward, for he claimed every maverick in the bunch and took them home for his own. This was a long time ago, in the age of myth and fable, and the doctor's herd has been sadly decimated since by rustlers and ruthless brand blotchers. A brand that can't be burned over is more precious than rubies now; and the bigger it is, the better.

The Bat Wing was an old brand, dating back to some Mexican Manuel Ortega, or Mariano Ortiz, who had writ his initials large on the left hip of his steers, M above O, connected. With years the O had shrunk and the M spraddled out until it looked like a winged disk—and had taken on different names: Money-bug, from its resemblance to a dollar on the wing; Bat-out-o'-hell, from a similar frontier fancy; until finally it settled down to plain Bat Wing. But whatever else happened to the Bat Wing brand, the iron never got any smaller; in fact, the reason the M grew so big that it flew away with the O was because a calf's hip widens out at the top and if the whole space is securely covered there will be no room left for illicit alterations.

This is all very interesting and romantic, of course, when taken by itself; but nobody stopped to explain it to Bowles, the humanitarian cowboy. When the cattle were on the cutting-grounds and the branding was about to begin, Henry Lee cast a contemptuous glance at his new hand and decided to put him to work.

"Bowles," he said, "you help with the flanking."

So when the first little calf came gamboling in on the line, Bowles rushed out and seized the rope. Working down to the calf, he caught it by its neck and flank and finally wrestled it to the ground. He was casting loose the rope when Buck Buchanan grabbed the calf by the upper hind leg, braced his boot against the lower leg, and sat comfortably down behind. Then Happy Jack came ramping out with a red-hot stamp-iron and slapped it against the tender hide.

"Baaa!" blatted the little calf, rolling its eyes until they showed the whites. "Baaa!" And then, before it knew what was happening, Hardy Atkins knelt roughly on its neck, grabbed its left ear, and cut away half of it at a single stroke of the knife. "Baaa!" bellowed the calf, curling up its tail; and as the blood trickled forth Bowles felt himself grow sick and faint.

"Hold his head up!" directed Atkins; and then, with an impatient yank, he twitched up the second ear and cut a swallow-fork. The calf writhed and struggled to escape, and as he fought against it Bowles caught the stench of burning hair. Turning, he discovered Happy Jack still bearing down on the hot iron and searing it deep into the flesh. That finished Bowles, and he sank back on the ground, turning his victim loose.

"You want to hold their heads up," remarked Buck Buchanan, and Bowles nodded and answered faintly. What he really wanted was a chance to guard the herd; but orders were orders with Henry Lee, and if he failed to do his work he was fired. Another calf came in—a big, lusty yearling—and Buck made a motion with his hand.

"Ketch that one," he directed in a fatherly tone of voice, and Bowles staggered out to do or die. But a yearling calf can be a very obstreperous brute on occasion, and this one was hot from his run. Within a minute after he had grappled with it all thought of pity had died out in Bowles' breast. First he caught the bull calf by the neck and flank and tried to pull it over; then, as it fought against him and trampled on his feet, he seized its further legs and tried to lift them up; failing in this, he laid hold of it in a frenzy and tried to throw it by main strength.

"Git yore knees under him," suggested Buck from the middle distance. Then, after another period of waiting, he slouched ponderously out and shoved him aside.

"Let me at 'im," he said. "You're keepin' Bill waitin' for his rope."

He felt of the calf for a minute and pushed him to make him change his feet; then, as the yearling started to step, he boosted him with his knees, heaved him into the air, and slammed him down on his side. It was a man's job, and difficult for the best of them, but Bowles didn't know that. All he knew was that the boss was watching him, over there by the fire where he was keeping tally on the brands, and thinking what a tenderfoot he was. And he was right—Bowles conceded it. He could not catch his horse, he could not ride a bronk, he could not even throw a calf or lift it off the ground. And his back ached, awfully.

It was a long morning for Mr. Bowles, packed with misery and hopeless struggling, like a nightmare without end. They say that in the short time between the instant a man starts falling out of bed and the moment he hits the floor, he can pass through a very inferno of dreams, passed down from our tree-living ancestors and striking terror to the heart—and yet he generally wakes up before he lands. If he did not, so the old nurses say, he would surely, surely die. The jagged rocks that threatened him in his dream would pierce his quivering body and he would be found dead on the floor. The coroner would call it heart-failure, of course; and that was what threatened Bowles.

He was saved by a sound he had cursed that very morning—Gloomy Gus beating on his dishpan! Packing all his kit into the chuck-wagon, and throwing on a few sticks of wood, the cook had struck out through the dog towns and across the brushy flats and set up his fire irons by the side of a man-made lake. There he had gone busily about his task without waiting for the herd to come in; and just as Bowles was dropping dead, the dinner-call saved his life.

It had been a bad dream, but, thank Heaven, he had waked up before he struck. A pint of scalding coffee, black and bitter from much boiling, and he was able to look about; and as he disposed of a couple of beefsteaks and dipped his biscuits in the grease, the weak place in his middle seemed comforted; and by the time he got around to the "fruit" and syrup he felt almost like a man again. Such jests as had been passed upon his condition had fallen upon unhearing ears, but now that he was brought back to health and strength he was able to smile grimly at his appearance as mirrored in the honest lake.

His face, which he had neglected to wash before eating, was crusted with sweat and dirt and spotted with gouts of blood; his hair was matted and dust-powdered; and in the bloodshot and haggard orbs that gazed up at him from the placid depths he saw a look that made him start. It was a cruel, vindictive look, almost inhuman in its intensity; and it came from flanking bull calves. He looked down at his hands, all swollen and crabbed from clutching, and saw that they were caked with blood. His shirt, too, and his trim-fitting trousers were dirty and spattered with gore. In fact—and here was where the grim smile came in—he could hardly be told from a real cowboy!

After dinner the cutting and branding went on as before, but with this important difference—Bowles flanked only his share of the calves. There were two sets of flankers, two hot-iron men, and two ear-markers, and the calves came up as they were caught. A really ambitious flanker, out for experience, could get almost all the calves; but the only ones that Bowles ran after now were the ones that were easy to throw. If a yearling came dancing up on a rope, he stepped on his own foot and let the other man beat him to it—either that or turned him over to Buck. It was quick work; but Bowles had a college education—he had been only six hours a cowboy when he learned to malinger on the job.

As for the rest of the gang, inured as they were to hard labor, the branding was no more than a picnic for them. They found time to take chews of tobacco, tell stories, and watch all the roping; and if any calf turned out to be too big for flanking they grabbed him by the neck and made him run, and bulldogged him, "California fashion." Happy Jack was best at that, and several times in a fit of emulation he shoved some puncher aside and showed him how it ought to be done—but never for Bowles. It was strange how carefully they all avoided him—never looking at him, rarely addressing him, and answering his inquiries with a word. He was an alien, a stranger among them, and—slowly the truth was borne in on him—an inferior.

From the start Bowles had taken it for granted that they were abashed, tongue-tied by his obvious education, and awed by his gentlemanly bearing. But now they would not so much as laugh at him, lest it encourage him to familiarity. Never for a minute did they allow him to presume on their sufferance, and his remarks fell dead and flat. Even Henry Lee, who had the bearing and spoke the language of a gentleman, refused to encourage him by a word; and at last he retired within himself, and saved his breath for flanking and his wits for dodging work.

If a cowboy never soldiered on the job he would be dead before it came pay-day; but there are certain tasks which cannot be slighted, and one of these is bringing home the herd. After the day's branding the calves are cut into "ones" and "twos," and while the rest of the outfit troops gaily homeward somebody must stay behind and bring up the cut. One of them must be a cowman, for trailing is an art in itself, but the others are likely to be dubs. Certainly no boss would penalize his best hands and most willing workers by giving them such a task; and so, when the cutting was over and Henry Lee looked around for a poor hand, or one who had been soldiering on the job, he picked Bowles on both counts.

"Bowles," he said, "you help Brigham bring up those twos!" And that was all there was to it. But to Brigham he spoke differently. It was "Brig," with him; and instead of an order it was a request.

"Brig," he said, "I'll ask you to take charge of the twos. Drive 'em easy and put 'em in the north pasture."

"All right, sir," answered Brigham in a friendly, off-hand way, and then the drive began. Mounted upon a rough-coated bronk that fought his bit constantly yet responded to every touch of rein or spur, the burly puncher rode back and forth, from the rear to the flank, and then up near the point; and when he had them strung out to suit him he traveled along on one side, while Bowles brought up the rear. It was weary work, after the long day of flanking, and as the weaker ones began to get footsore they fell back to the drag and more than doubled his labors. At times Brigham Clark dropped back and strung them out for him again; but he said nothing, chewing placidly on his tobacco and giving all his thought to the cattle. Still the drag increased, and as they began to lag behind, Bowles let down his rope and lashed them with the loop. It was then that Brigham Clark spoke.

"Don't do no good to whip 'em," he remarked, falling back to string them out. "They'll travel as fast as the leaders—jest let 'em go."

So Bowles put up his rope and let them go, and soon they fell farther behind; but about the time he was preparing to whip them anyway, the cowman dropped back from the flank.

"Now, that's the way to handle cattle," he said, nodding at the plodding line. "String 'em out and crowd the leaders—the drag will take care of itself."

At that he was gone again; and for an hour or more he rode tirelessly up and down the side, filling up every hole and gap and shoving the leaders ahead. The cottonwoods of the home ranch showed green against the hills, and the end of their drive was in sight, when suddenly Brigham held up his hand to stop.

"Let 'em feed a while," he said, as Bowles rode up to inquire. "The drag is gittin' weak." Then he sat silent on his rough-haired bronk, his inscrutable eyes gazing dully over the plain to the south, and Bowles dropped wearily off his horse and stretched himself out on the ground. Half an hour afterward he roused up with a start just as Dixie Lee, mounted on a long, rangy bay, came galloping up the road. Her eyes were very bright, and her cheeks were flushed from riding against the wind, and as she reined her horse in with a jerk her hair framed her face like a halo. But she did not see Bowles, though he stood up and took off his hat.

"Hello, Brig," she called. "Watching 'em pick the flowers?"

"Yes'm," answered Brigham, grinning amiably. "Watchin' 'em pluck the blossoms. What's goin' on down below now? Seen you go down there several times."

"Oh, you're still keeping track of me, are you?" queried Dixie Lee gaily. "Well, you want to look out, Brigham—I'm getting awfully interested in a young Texican down there. He's got a nice farm, too—hundred and sixty acres!"

"Sure!" agreed Brigham. "All covered with loco weed and this nice white stuff!"

He nodded at the glistening alkali along the flat, and his eyes twinkled with furtive humor as Dixie Lee raised her quirt.

"Aw, Brigham," she chided, "I believe you're jealous!" She leaned forward as she spoke, and the bay broke into a gallop, while Dixie sent a laugh down the wind.

"Heh, heh, heh," chuckled Brigham, reaching into his vest for a cigarette paper. "That's Dix, all right. Don't you know, stranger," he went on as he rolled himself a smoke, "that's the finest gal in Arizona. Good folks an' all that, but nothin' stuck up about her. Heh, heh, mighty nigh ast her to marry me one time, but couldn't quite cut it—she's been joshin' me ever since. Got 'em all comin' and won't have none of 'em. Oh, hookey, wisht I wasn't a common, ornery cow-punch!"

He paused and smoked a while, still gazing at the streak of dust.

"Good rider, too," he observed; "beat most of the boys. I knowed her four miles away by section lines."

Once more he paused, and Bowles preserved his Sphinx-like silence. He was learning the customs of the country fast.

"Don't have any like her back where you come from, I reckon," suggested Brigham, his eyes shining with local pride; and Bowles sadly shook his head. No, they did not—there was no one like Dixie Lee.