Captain Bill Henry, foreman of the Bar O outfit, and head by choice of the season's round up, had just ridden into camp. Most of the men were in the cook-tent when he turned his dripping bay horse in with the others. Then he picked up his saddle, bridle, and blanket and carried them up to the cook-tent, where he threw them down, hitting one of the stake-ropes with such violence as to cause the whole tent to quiver, and one of the boys inside to mutter under his breath:

"Lord, the Cap's on the prod! What in the devil's he got in his gizzard now?"

"Don't know," answered the second, returning from the stove, where he had loaded his plate with a wonderful assortment of eatables and seated himself on a roll of bedding beside the first speaker. "Too bad he couldn't knock the roof off'n our heads. He's sure enough mad, just look at him!" he whispered, as Captain Bill Henry stooped his tall, lank frame to come into the tent.

The men, sitting about inside, glanced up when he entered. Some of them grinned, others went on with their supper, but the "Cap" from under his bushy red eyebrows hardly noticed them as he took the necessary dishes from the mess-box and strode over to the stove, around which old Evans, the cook, moved in great concern.

"Now just try some o' them beans. Regular Boston baked, Cap, they'll melt in your mouth. An' here's a kidney stew I've been savin' fer you," taking from the oven a well concealed stew-pan. "If any o' them boys 'ud a found it they'd made short work of it, I reckon."

He removed the cover and held the dish under Bill Henry's nose. The "Cap" gave one sniff. "Phew! Take it away! Don't like the damn'd stuff, nohow!"

A dazed look passed over old Evans' face, giving way to one of mortal injury. Not a man smiled, though several seemed about to collapse with a sudden spasm which they tried in vain to control. Away went the contents of the pan, leaving a streak of kidney-stew almost down to the horse ropes. "If it ain't good enough fer you, it ain't fer me," said the cook, his bald head thrown well back upon thin shoulders.

The "Cap" glared at him as he poured out a generous measure of strong coffee into a large tin cup, then ran his eye about the tent for a possible seat.

A quiet-looking fellow, a youth fresh from the East, got up, politely offering him the case of tomatoes upon which he had been sitting. Bill Henry refused it with a scowl, taking a seat upon the ground near the front of the tent, where he crossed his lank legs in front of him. The cow-puncher sank back upon his case of tomatoes while the "Cap" ate in great, hungry mouthfuls, soaking his bread in the sloppy beans and washing it down with frequent noisy sips of hot coffee. Finally he began to speak, with a full Missouri twang:

"This beats hell! Not a dang man around this part of the country wants to throw in with this here outfit. Never saw no such luck! Here we are with two months' steady work before we make town, an' only ten men to do the work o' fifteen! I'll hire no more devilish breeds. You can't trust 'em no more'n you can a rattler, no, sir! All of 'em quit last night, an' Long Bill along with 'em! I'd never thought it o' Bill. Been ridin' all the evenin' an' couldn't find hair or hide of him. It's enough to make a man swear a blue streak, yes, sir! Well, I rounded up one breed limpin' 'round Harris' shack, an' he said his gun went off by accident an' give him a scratch on the calf o' the leg. Bet ten dollars he's been in a fight over there! Damn'd nest o' drunken louts! I'll be glad when we're away from these here parts!"

At this point one of the cowboys got up, threw his dishes into the pan, and strode outside.

"You on night-herd to-night?" asked the Captain.

"Yep," answered the cow-puncher. "Going to relieve Jack."

"Tell them other fellers to come along in an' git their chuck; it's mighty nigh time to turn in now. Got to make Miller's crossing in the morning."

"All right," answered the man from outside. Then putting his head back into the tent, exclaimed in a loud whisper: "Here comes Long Bill!"

"The devil he is! It's about time," growled Bill Henry. He had no more than got the words out of his mouth before a man, head and shoulders above any cow-puncher there, stalked in.

"Well, Cap, I've come round to git paid off, fer I reckon I'm knocked out of the ring fer a little spell." He stooped and held down for inspection a hand bandaged in a much-stained bandanna handkerchief. "One o' them damn'd dogs o' Harris' run his teeth all the way through it," he explained.

The captain grunted, threw his well cleaned plate over into the dish pan, and rose stiffly to his feet. "What'd you do to the dog?" he asked.

"That was his last bite," roared out Long Bill. "I sent him flyin' into Kingdom Come!"

"Let's see your hand," demanded his chief; thereupon the tall cowboy hesitated an instant, then removed the bandage, and, with an air of bravado, held out his hand for inspection. Some of the men crowded about curiously, throwing careless jokes of condolement at the sufferer, while others passed by regardless.

Captain Bill Henry examined the wounded member carefully, then grunted again, while his eyelids contracted until only a sparkle of liquid blue showed beneath his bushy red brows.

"A mighty bad bite! You'll have a hell of a time with that hand! What were yo' tryin' to do, anyhow—makin' a mark out o' it? Was you holdin' your hand up, or down, or what? That dog must 'a' had a pretty good eye. Do you know what that looks like to me? Well, sir, it looks mighty like you'd held up your hand to the muzzle of your gun an' pulled the trigger! Yes, sir, only there ain't no powder marks; so I calculate the dog must 'a' been some distance away when he took aim! The hole's clean through, just as slick as any bullet could 'a' made it. That dog must 'a' had a powerful sharp tooth! Well, you ain't goin' to be able to handle a rope very soon, dog or no dog, that's plain as the nose on your face. You'd make a mighty good ornament to have around camp, but I reckon I'll pay you off." Later: "Know of any men I can git around here?"

"Nary one but them breeds over to Harris'," replied Long Bill. "They're drunker'n lords now, but they'll be wantin' a job in a day or so when they sober up, an' I'll send 'em 'round here. I'll be huntin' a job myself in about a month, when this here paw o' mine gits well. It's mighty painful."

"You'd better go to town an' see a doctor," drawled the "Cap." "An' while you're on your way stop at Hathaway's an' give him or Jim McCullen a letter fer me. I'll have it ready in a minute an' it'll save me sendin' a man over."

Without waiting for a reply from the tall cow-puncher, Captain Bill Henry stalked over to his bed, took from the roll a pad of paper, and was soon lost in the mysteries of letter-writing.

He was an awkwardly built man, but his whole appearance gave one the impression that he meant business—and he was crammed full of it. Seated astride his tarp-covered bed, with his back to the few straggling cow-punchers about the tents, he proceeded in a determined, business-like way to write the letter. Before he had finished the difficult operation some men rode up to the camp—the men who had been on herd, hungry for their supper, and two outsiders.

Around the mess-wagon, which had been backed into the cook-tent in the usual order, lounged a group of cowboys whose appetites had been satisfied and whose duties for the time being were over. Two of the men who had just come up on horseback joined these, while Captain Bill Henry, without looking around, continued his somewhat difficult task of composing a letter, which, when accomplished, he folded carefully.

"Hello! Where did you'ns drop from?" he drawled as he approached the newcomers. "I was just goin' to send word over to have your wagon join me at west fork o' Stony Creek. I'm too short o' men to work Stony Creek country, anyhow. Hathaway's reps all left me awhile back, an' Long Bill, he's leavin' to-day—got bit by a mad dog over here. Jackson's wagon an' the U Bar ain't goin' to join me till we git down in the Lonesome Prairie country, so I was just goin' to send a letter over to your place, for if he wants a good round-up on this range he'd better send over that extra wagon o' his'n. You'ns goin' right back?"

"I'm not," replied Carter. "But McCullen can take word over to the ranch. He's going the first thing in the morning."

"Cert. Got to go, anyway, an' I reckon my horse can pack your message to the boss if it ain't too heavy," said McCullen.

Old Jim McCullen had been Hathaway's right hand man as long as anyone could remember. He had put in many years as wagon-boss, and finally retired from active life to the quieter one at the home-ranch, where he drew the biggest pay of any man in Hathaway's employ, and practically managed all the details of the great cattle concern. He saw that the wagons were properly provisioned, manned, and started out in the spring, that the men who brought up the trail-herds were paid off; he attended to the haying, the small irrigating plant that had been started, and to all the innumerable details that go toward the smooth running of a large ranch. Now the "boss" had sent him on a mission whose import he understood perfectly—something altogether out of the line of his usual duties, but of greater importance than anything he had ever undertaken. He was going back to the ranch in the morning to tell Hathaway that his daughter was apparently all right. He and Carter had pitched their tent not far from where the round-up was camped, and had ridden over for some beef. One of the men cut them a liberal piece from a yearling that they had just butchered. Carter tied it upon the back of his saddle and rode off toward camp, while old Jim McCullen sat down, lighted a cigarette, and listened to the gossip of the round-up.

"Right smart lot o' dogs round them breeds down there," remarked Bill Henry, nodding his head toward Harris' ranch. "Long Bill, here, he's been unfortunate. Went up there a-courtin' one o' them pretty Harris girls last eyenin', an' blamed if she didn't go an' sick the dogs on him!"

McCullen sized up his bandaged hand. "Mighty bad-lookin' fist there," he chuckled. "Must 'a' bled some by the looks of that rag. When'd it happen?"

"This mornin', just as I was startin' to come over to camp."

"You don't tell!" condoled the visitor. "That's mighty bad after sitting up all-night with your best girl!"

"Long Bill's pretty intent after them breed girls," remarked Captain Bill Henry; thereupon the cowboy flushed angrily.

"No breed girls in mine! The new school-marm's more to my likin'," he boasted. "An' from the sweet looks she give me, I reckon I ain't goin' to have no trouble there!"

The next instant Long Bill lay sprawling in the dust, while old Jim McCullen rained blow after blow upon him. When he finished, Long Bill remained motionless, the blood streaming from his nose and mouth. Old Jim straightened up and looked down at the fallen giant with utmost contempt, then he pulled his disarranged cartridge belt into shape and glanced at his hands. They were covered with the cowboy's blood.

"Reckon I'd better wash up a bit," he remarked easily, and went into the cook-tent.

The men lounged about, apparently indifferent to the scene which was being enacted. It might have been an every day occurrence, so little interest they showed, yet several stalwart fellows gave old Jim McCullen an admiring glance as he passed them.

On the crest of a near divide stood a group of squaws. After a short conference they proceeded slowly, shyly toward the round-up camp. Some distance from it they grouped together again and waited while a very old woman wrapped in a dingy white blanket came boldly up to the group of men, and in a jargon of French and Indian asked for the refuse of the newly killed yearling. The foreman pointed to where it lay, and gruffly told her to go and get it, but she spied the unconscious figure of Long Bill stretched out upon the grassy flat, and with a low cry of woe flung herself down beside him.

"Who done this?" she cried in very plain English, facing the cowboys with a look of blackest anger. No answer came.

"Better tell her," suggested a cow-puncher who was unrolling his bed. "She's a witch, you know."

"If she's a witch she don't need no telling," replied another, at which they all laughed.

"A witch?" said one. "I sure thought witches were all burned up!"

The old squaw was examining the fallen man, who began to show signs of consciousness. She bristled like a dog at the cowboy's remark.

"I see beyond! I know the future, the past, everything!" she cried impressively. "I read your thoughts! Say what you like, you dogs, but not one o' you would like me to tell what I read in your lives. I know! I know! I know everything!" Her voice reached a high, weird cry. Her blanket had slipped down, leaving her hair in wisps about her mummified face. To all appearances she might have been a genuine witch as she groveled over Long Bill.

"Ask her how she tells fortunes—cards or tea-leaves," said one.

"Or by the palm of your hand or the stars above," suggested another.

"Wonder where she keeps her broomstick," mused a third.

Just then McCullen came out of the cook-tent and faced the spectacle.

"I see he's found a nurse," he remarked, and walked over to his horse.

The old woman stood and gesticulated wildly, throwing mad, incoherent words at him. Finally her jargon changed into fair English.

"You dog, you did this! And why? Ah, ha, ha! I know! I know all things! Because of the white girl! So! Ha, ha! Must you alone love the white girl so that no man can speak her name? Oh, you can't deny you love her! You, who ride and hunt with her for fifteen years. Cannot another man open his mouth but that you must fly at him? Ha, ha! I know!"

"I'll wring your neck, you old——!" said McCullen at his horse's head.

"You will stop my tongue, will you! I'll show you! You are up here to watch that girl—but where's your eyes? What are you doing? This is my son-in-law, and you'd like to wipe him from the face of the earth! You beat him in the face—him with one hand! See! How did he get it? Why are some of my other son-in-laws limping about with bullets in their legs? Why is a man lying dead up in the mountains? Why all this at once? Ask that white girl who teaches little children to be good! Ask that devil's child who can put a bullet straight as her eye! Ask her! She would destroy my people. Curse her soul, I say!"

Suddenly the witch-like spirit in her seemed to shrivel into the blanket which she wrapped about her, then with placid, expressionless face she made her way to where the yearling had been butchered and hurriedly stuffed the refuse into a gunny sack which she dragged to where the other squaws were waiting, then they all made off.

Long Bill sat up and looked about him. "Curse who?" he asked. "Curse me, I reckon fer not knowin' enough to keep my mouth shut!"

McCullen, with face and lips pallid, had mounted his horse. Long Bill pulled himself together and walked over toward him.

"I'll take that back," he said. "I didn't mean it, nohow."

"I reckon I was over-hasty," McCullen replied. "But that was our little girl you were talkin' about—little Hope; an' no man on earth, let alone a common squaw-man, ain't goin' to even breathe her name disrespectfully. She's like my own child. I've almost brought her up. Learned her little baby fingers to shoot, an' had her on a horse before she could talk plain. Don't let her find this out, for I'm plumb sorry I had to hurt you; but the man who says more than you did dies!" He rode away and soon was lost in the deep falling shadows. The men in the cow-camp unrolled their bedding, and all was soon one with the stillness of the night.