There was quite a little excitement in the bunk-house that night, and when it was at its height Brigham Clark came tottering out with his bed.

"Say, where's that friend of mine—that Coney Island feller?" he inquired, addressing the recumbent forms of men as he scouted along the wagon-shed. "I'm skeered to sleep in the same house with them cotton-pickers and old Bar Seven—they might rise up in the night and throw me into the hawse-trough. Huh? Oh, that's him over there, hey? Well, so long, fellers—kinder cold out hyer, ain't it? But I cain't sleep in that bunk-house no more—them fellers, they doubt my veracity!"

He was still chuckling with subdued laughter as he dropped his bed down in a far corner beside Bowles; but nothing was said until he had spread his "tarp" and blankets and crept in out of the cold. Then he laughed again, quivering until the earth seemed to shake with his contagious merriment.

"Say, pardner," he said, "you're all right. We capped 'em in on that proper, and no mistake. Did you see old Bar Seven's jaw drop when he saw how he was bit? I'll have that on him for many a long day now, and it'll shore cost him the drinks when we git to town next month. Gittin' too lively for me over in the bunk-house, so I thought I'd come out here with you."

"Sure!" responded Bowles, who had secretly been lonely for company. "It's rather cold out here, but the air is better."

"Yes—and the company," added Brigham meaningly. "Ain't these Texicans the ignorantest bunch? W'y, them fellers don't know nothin' till they see you laugh! I could've got away with that strong-arm business if I could've kept my face straight, but old Bar Seven was too many fer me—I jest had to snicker or I'd bust! Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh!"

"There was one thing which kind of puzzled me, though," observed Bowles. "Would you mind telling me where you got that absurd idea of the three Hassan brothers?"

"W'y, sure not," giggled Brigham, creeping closer and lowering his voice. "Don't tell anybody, but I got it off a drummer in the smokin'-car when I was comin' back from the Fair in Phoenix. The way he told it, there was an Englishman and a Frenchman and an Irishman talkin' together, each one braggin' about his own country; and the Englishman began it by tellin' about his younger brother, who wasn't nothin' hardly in England but could do that first stunt with the clay pipes. Then the Frenchman told about his brother, who wasn't nothin' for a balancer but was pretty good at rope-work; and the Irishman, in order to trump 'em right, he tells about his youngest brother that was strong in the arms. Say, that shore knocked the persimmon, didn't it? Them fellers was like the man that come out of Loony Park—they didn't know straight-up! Their eyes was stickin' out so you could rope 'em with a grape-vine, but they didn't dare to peep. Been called down too often. But say, pardner, on the dead, how about that divin' hawse?"

"Why—er—what do you mean?" asked Bowles.

"Well, did he shore enough do that, or was you jest stringin' 'em?"

"Why, yes, certainly he did! Haven't you ever heard about Selim, the diving horse? How long ago was it that you were at Coney Island?"

"Who—me?" inquired Brigham. "Never was there," he replied with engaging frankness; "never been outside the Territory. Say, you didn't think I'd shore been there, did ye?" he questioned eagerly.

"I certainly did," replied Bowles. "Of course, I knew that you were drawing the long bow this evening—but how did you get all this information if you've never been there?"

"Heh, heh, heh!" chuckled Brigham, rolling over on his bed. "Say, this is pretty good, by grab! Feller comes clear out hyer from New York, and I take him in, too! W'y, pardner, I was with a carnival company down at the Territorial Fair last fall, and that was the nearest I ever got to Coney; but they was a feller there—the ballyhoo man for Go-Go, the wild boy—and he was always tellin' me about Coney, until I knowed it like a book. Yes, sir, I jest camped right down and listened to that spieler; and he was shore glad to talk. Talkin' was his business, and he'd been at it so long he'd got the habit—couldn't help it—all he needed was some feller to listen to 'im. But all he'd talk about was Coney Island. Been there for years and didn't know nothin' else—and he shore filled me up right. Learned me all his spiels and everythin', and when I come back from winterin' in that Phoenix country I tole 'em I was back from New York. New York and the Great White Way—and Coney.

"But you shore strengthened my hand immensely, pardner, the way you he'ped out to-night. Now, we want to stand pat on this—don't tip me off to 'em—and pretty soon I'll have 'em all spraddled out ag'in. Hardy Atkins and that bunch, they make too much noise—they won't let me talk at all—but you watch me go after Bar Seven and these stray men. I'll tell ye—you put me wise to a whole lot more stuff, and I'll frame up another come-on. How's that now?"

"All right," agreed Bowles, yawning sleepily. "Good-night!"

He dropped back into his blankets and covered up his head; but Brigham failed to take the hint.

"Got any more divin' stories?" he asked, with gentle insistence. "They bite on them fine. Or a hawse story! A cowboy thinks he knows all about hawses. Go ahead and give me one now, so I can spring it on 'em in the mornin'—I got to have somethin' to come back at 'em with. They're always throwin' it into me about being a Mormon—I jest wanter show 'em that I've got the goods. Go ahead now—tell me somethin'!"

"All right," said Bowles, coming out from under his blankets; "but, really, I'm awfully sleepy!"

"Yeah; you'll git over that after you've been punchin' cows a while," observed Brigham sagely. "I'm on the wrangle again, but it don't worry me none. Cowboy's got no right to sleep, nohow. Let 'im trade his bed for a lantern—that's what they all say—but don't fergit that divin' story, pardner. Didn't you never see no more divin' stunts—in New York or somewhere?"

"Why, yes," answered Bowles, brightening up; "that reminds me—there's the Hippodrome!"

"Aha!" breathed Brigham. "What's it like?"

"Why, the Hippodrome," continued Bowles, "is an immense playhouse right in the heart of New York that's given over entirely to spectacles. It has a stage large enough to accommodate a thousand people, and a great lake out in front that is big enough to float a fleet of boats; and every year they put on some new spectacle. One year it will be the battle of Manila Bay, for instance, with ships and men and cannons, and a great shipwreck scene right there in the lake, with people falling overboard and getting drowned—and the peculiar thing is that when a boatload of people fall into that lake they never come up again. It's just the same as if they were drowned."

"Aw, say," broke in Brigham, "you're givin' me a fill, ain't you?"

"No," protested Bowles warmly; "I'm telling you the truth. Why, I saw the most glorious spectacle there one night. It represented the tempting of some young prince by Cleopatra, the beautiful Egyptian queen. There were six hundred women in the play, and as they marched and countermarched across the stage the lights would throw soft colors about them, and then as they danced the colors would change, until the whole place looked like fairyland. Then they would swing up into the air on invisible wires and hover about like butterflies—there would be a flash and all would have wings—and then they would disappear again and come out dressed in armor like Amazons. And in the last act, when the prince had sent them away, they marched down the broad stone steps that lead into the lake, four abreast, and without taking a deep breath, or showing any concern whatever, they just walked right into that deep water and disappeared. Never came up again. Gone, the whole six hundred of them!"

"Gone!" echoed Brigham in amazement. "Where to? Where'd they go to?"

"Under the water—that's all I know."

"Gee, what a lie!" exclaimed Brigham, rising up in bed. "By jicks, pardner, I shore have to take off my hat to you—you got a wonderful imagination!"

"No, indeed!" protested Bowles. "It's every word of it true. This Hippodrome was designed by the same man who built Luna Park, and invented the loop the loop, and shoot the chutes, and all those other wonderful things. I was reading an article about that Hippodrome lake and it seems he built some kind of a great metal hood down under the water and filled it with compressed air of just the right pressure to displace the water. All the details are held secret, and the very people who use it are kept in ignorance, but as near as can be found out the performers dive right down under that hood and from there they are taken off through underground passages and carried back to their dressing-rooms. Several people were drowned while they were experimenting with it, but now it's perfectly safe; I don't suppose those women mind it at all."

"No!" cried Brigham, still struggling with his emotions. "Is it as easy as that? But say," he whispered, as the magnitude of the story came over him, "jest wait till I get this off on the cowboys—I'll have me a reputation like old Tom Pepper, or Windy Bill up on the J.F.! You don't want to pull it yoreself, do you? Well, jest give me the details, then, and I'll depend on you to make my hand good when they come back for the explanation. But, by grab, if it's anythin' like what you say, I'm shore goin' to save my money and drag it fer old New York!"

"Yes, indeed," murmured Bowles, cuddling down into his bed; "I'm sure you'd enjoy it."

He fell to breathing deeply immediately, feigning a dreamless slumber, and when Brigham asked his next question Bowles was lost to the world. The cowboy's night was all too short for him, ending as it did at four-thirty in the morning, and not even a consideration for Brigham's future career could fight off the demands of sleep. Yet hardly had he closed his eyes—or so it seemed—when Gloomy Gus flashed his lantern in his face and then turned to the ambitious Brigham.

"Git up, Brig!" he rasped. "It's almost day! Wranglers!"

"Oh, my Lord!" moaned Brigham, turning to hide his face, but the round-up cook was inexorable and at last he had his way. Then as the wranglers clumped away to saddle their night-horses the dishpan clanged out its brazen summons and one by one the cowboys stirred and rose. Last of all rose Bat Wing Bowles, for his head was heavy with sleep; but a pint of the cook's hot coffee brought him back to life again, and he was ready for another day.

Shrill yells rose from the far corner of the horse pasture; there was a rumble of feet, a din of hoofbeats growing nearer, and then with a noise like thunder the remuda poured into the corral. A scamper of ponies and the high-pitched curses of the riders told where the outlaws were being turned back from a break; and then the bars went up and the wranglers ran shivering to the fire.

"Pore old Brig!" observed Bar Seven with exaggerated concern. "He was up all night!"

"What's the matter?" inquired another. "Feet hurt 'im?"

"No," said Bar Seven sadly; "it was his haid!"

Brigham looked up from his cup of coffee and said nothing. Then, seeing many furtive eyes upon him, he laughed shortly, and filled his cup again.

"Yore eyes look kinder bad, Seven," he said. "Must've kinder strained 'em last night."

"Nope," answered Bar Seven, upon whom the allusion was not lost; and with this delicate passage at arms the subject of big stories was dropped. Henry Lee came down, there was a call for horses, and in the turmoil of roping and mounting the matter was forgotten. Brigham had scored a victory and he was satisfied, while the stray men were biding their time. So the marvels of the Hippodrome were held in reserve, and the round-up supplied the excitement.

As the riding of bronks progressed, the accidents that go with such work increased. Almost every morning saw its loose horse racing across the flats, and the number of receptive candidates for the job of day-herding was swelled by the battle-scarred victims. Then fate stepped in, the scene was changed, and Bowles found himself a man again.

"Bowles," said Henry Lee, as he lingered by the fire, "can you drive a team?"

Visions of a flunky's job driving the bed-wagon rose instantly in his mind; but Bowles had been trained to truth-telling and he admitted that he could.

"Ever drive a wild team?" continued Lee, with a touch of severity.

"Well—no," answered Bowles. "I've driven spirited horses, such as we have in the East, but——"

"Think you could drive the grays to Chula Vista and back?"

"Oh, the grays!" cried Bowles, a sudden smile wreathing his countenance as he thought of that spirited pair. "Why, yes; I'm sure I could!"

"Oh," commented Henry Lee, as if he had his doubts; but after a quick glance at the self-sufficient youth he seemed to make up his mind. "Well," he said, "I'll get Hardy to hook 'em up—Mrs. Lee wants you to take her to town."

"Certainly," responded Bowles, turning suddenly sober. "I'll be very careful indeed."

"Yes," said the cattleman; "and if you can't drive, I want you to say so now."

"I've driven in the horse shows, Mr. Lee," answered Bowles. "You can judge for yourself."

"Oh, you have, have you?" And the keen gray eyes of Henry Lee seemed to add: "Then what are you doing out here?" But all he said was: "Very well."

Half an hour later, with his gloved hands well out to the front, and the whip in his right for emergencies, Bowles went racing southward behind the grays; while Mrs. Lee, her face muffled against the wind, was wondering at his skill. As a cowboy, Mr. Bowles had been a laughing-stock, but now he displayed all the courage and control of a Western stage-driver, with some of the style of a coachman thrown in.

"How well you drive, Mr. Bowles!" she ventured, after the grays had had their first dash. "I was afraid I shouldn't be able to go to town until after the round-up—Mr. Atkins is so busy, you know."

Bowles bowed and smiled grimly. It had been Hardy Atkins' boast that he alone was capable of handling the grays, and as he was harnessing them up that gentleman had seen fit to criticize the arrangements, only to be rebuked by Henry Lee.

"You know Mr. Lee depends so much on Hardy," continued Mrs. Lee, "and he needs him so on the circle that I disliked very much to ask for him—but something you said the other night about stage-coaching made me think that perhaps you could drive. Of course, any of the boys could drive, but—well, for some reason or other, I can never get them to talk to me; and to ride forty miles with a man who is too embarrassed to talk, and who hates you because he can't chew tobacco—that isn't so pleasant—now, is it?"

"Why, no, I presume not," agreed Bowles. "You know, I'm recently from the East, and perhaps that's why I notice it, but these Western men seem very difficult to get acquainted with. Of course I'm a greenhorn and all that, and I suppose they haven't much respect for me as a cowboy, but it's such a peculiar thing—no one will speak to me directly. Even when they make fun of me, they keep it among themselves. Brigham Clark is the only one who gives me any degree of friendship—and, that reminds me, I must get him some tobacco in town."

"Yes, I know what you mean," said Mrs. Lee. "I guess I do! Think of living out here for thirty years, Mr. Bowles, and having them still hold aloof. With Dixie, now, it is different. She was born here, and in a way she speaks their language. I have done my best, to be sure, to keep her diction pure—and Henry even has given up all his old, careless ways of speaking in order to do his part; but, somehow, she has learned the vernacular from these cowboys, and in spite of all I can say she will persist in using it. It was only yesterday that I overheard her say to Hardy: 'Yes, I can ride ary hawse in the pen!' And she says 'You-all' like a regular Texan. Of course, that is Southern too—and I have known some very cultivated Texans—but, oh, it makes me feel so bad that my daughter should fall into these careless ways! I have been in Arizona nearly thirty years now, and it has meant the loss of a great deal to me in many ways; but there was one thing I would not give up, Mr. Bowles—I would not give up my educated speech!"

She ended with some emotion, and Bowles glanced at her curiously, but he made no carping comments. When a lady has sacrificed so much to preserve the language of her fathers, it would be a poor return indeed to give her aught but praise—and yet he could sense it dimly that she had paid a fearful price. Personally, he was beginning to admire the direct speech of Dixie May, even to the extent of dropping some of his more obvious Eastern variants; but to the mother he hid the leanings of his heart.

"Your accent is certainly very pure," he said. "Really, I have never heard more perfect English—except, perhaps, from some highly educated foreigner. Our tendency to lapse into the vernacular lays us all open to criticism, of course. But don't you find, Mrs. Lee, that your Eastern speech is a bar, in a way, to the closest relations with your neighbors? I know with me it has been that way, and I am already trying to adopt the Western idiom as far as possible. Why, really, when I first came, they ridiculed me so for saying 'Beg pardon' that I doubt if I shall ever use the expression again. And I am having such a struggle to say 'calves'—not 'cahves,' you know, but 'calves'! It is all right to say 'brahnding cahves' back in New York, but out here it is so frightfully conspicuous! And besides——"

"Oh, now, Mr. Bowles," protested Mrs. Lee, laying a restraining hand on his arm, "I hope you will not shatter all my hopes by falling into this dreadful vernacular. If you only knew how much I enjoy your manner of speaking, if you knew what memories of New York and the old life your words bring up, you would hesitate, I am sure, to cast aside your heritage. Really, if Henry would have let me, I should have invited you up to the house the very evening you came; but you—well, you had some disagreement with him at the start, and it's rather prejudiced him against you. And, besides, he has his ideas of discipline, you know, and against making exceptions of one man over another; and so—well, I did hope you would be able to drive, because now I want to have a good long talk.

"I'm not proud, or 'stuck up,' as they say out here, Mr. Bowles," she went on, as if eager to begin her holiday; "and really I do everything in my power to be friendly, but the class of people who come here—these poor, ignorant nesters, and rough, hard-swearing cowboys—they seem actually to resent my manner of speaking. Of course, I was a school-teacher for a few years—before I married Henry—and I suppose that has made a difference; but I do get so lonely sometimes, with Dixie out riding around somewhere and Henry off on the round-up—and yet I just can't bring myself to speak this awful, vulgar Texas-talk. Now Dixie, she rides around anywhere, speaks to all the women, says 'Howdy' to all the men, and, I declare, when I hear her talking with these cowboys I wonder if she's my own daughter! They have such common ways of expressing themselves, although I must say they are always polite enough—but what I really object to is their familiar attitude toward Dixie. No matter what their class or station, they always seem to take it for granted that they are perfectly eligible, and that she is sure to marry one of them, and that even the commonest has a kind of gambler's chance to win her hand."

She paused, overcome apparently by memories of past courtships, and Bowles shuffled his feet uneasily.

"Of course," he said at length, "your daughter is very attractive——"

"Oh, do you think so?" exclaimed Mrs. Lee, making no concealment of her pleasure in the fact. "I thought, from the way you spoke to her—when I introduced you, you know——"

"Oh, that was just my manner!" interrupted Bowles hastily. "A little embarrassed, perhaps."

"But I thought," persisted Mrs. Lee, "I thought from the way you both acted that you had met before. In New York, perhaps—you know, she has been there all winter—or some time before that evening. You know, Dixie is generally so free with the new cowboys, but she spoke up at you so sharply, and you——"

"Ah—excuse me," interposed Bowles, "perhaps I would better explain. I did meet your daughter, very informally to be sure, on the morning of my arrival at Chula Vista. It was that which caused my embarrassment—always painful when people fail to recognize you, you know—and especially with a lady. Er—what do all these prairie-dogs live on, Mrs. Lee? We have passed so many of them, but I don't see——"

"Mr. Bowles," said Mrs. Lee, placing her hand once more upon his arm and looking at him with an anxious mother's eyes, "I want you to meet my daughter again. She was in New York all winter, you know, and perhaps you have some friends in common. Anyway, I wish we could see more of you—it would be such a pleasure to me, and Dixie——"

She let her eyes express her longing for the improvement of Dixie's diction—a certain approval, too, of Bowles—but he did not respond at once. Fighting within his breast was a mad, fatuous desire to stand in the presence of his beloved, to hear the music of her voice and behold the swiftness and grace of her comings and goings; but almost as an echo in his ears he could hear the mocking formalism of her answers, and feel the scorn in her eyes as she sneered at him for pursuing her. His face became graver as he thought, and then, with the ready wit of his kind, he framed up a tactful excuse.

"Oh, thank you," he said. "It's very kind of you, I'm sure—and there is nothing I should enjoy more—but under the circumstances I am afraid I shall have to decline. You know of course that, whatever my life may have been in the past, at present I am nothing but a hired hand—and a very poor hand at that, I am afraid. And since Mr. Lee has asked you not to make exceptions among the men, I should be very sorry indeed to go against his wishes."

"Oh, that is not the rule, Mr. Bowles," protested Mrs. Lee. "We make exceptions to it all the time, and I am sure Henry would be glad to have you come. Some evening after supper, you know. I want so much to have Dixie meet people of refinement and education, and while for the moment you may be working as a common cowboy, of course we know——"

"You know very little, as a matter of fact," interposed Bowles; "and I am sorry that circumstances make it impossible for me to discuss my antecedents. But has it not occurred to you, Mrs. Lee, that, considering the attitude of the cowboys in the past, it might—well, my motives might be misunderstood—if I should call."

"Why, surely, Mr. Bowles," began Mrs. Lee, her eyes big with wonder, "you are not—er—afraid of what the cowboys——"

"Oh, no, no!" protested Bowles, blushing to the tips of his sunburned ears. "Certainly not! I did not mean the cowboys."

"Well, what then?" demanded Mrs. Lee, in perplexity.

Mr. Bowles hesitated a moment, looking straight ahead to where Chula Vista rose between the horses' ears.

"You will excuse me, Mrs. Lee, I'm sure," he said, speaking very low. "But when I spoke of my motives being misunderstood, I did not have reference to the cowboys. I was—er—thinking of your daughter."

"My daughter!" echoed Mrs. Lee, suddenly sitting up very straight in her seat. Then, as the significance of his remarks became evident, she gazed across at him reproachfully.

"Why, Mr. Bowles!" she said; and then there was a long, pensive silence, broken only by the thud of flying feet, the rattle and rumble of wheels, and the yikr-r-r of startled prairie-dogs.