The Friar sez it’s all rot about men bein’ better for havin’ sowed their wild oats when young. He sez ’at it’s utter foolishness to sow any crop ya don’t want to harvest; but I dunno. I don’t mind havin’ a colt try to turn himself inside out with me on its back; but I’m some prejudiced again’ an old hoss which is likely to pitch when I’ve got other business to attend to. When a young hoss is mean, why, ya can reason it out of him; but when an old hoss turns bad, you might just as well put the outlaw label on him an’ turn him adrift.

We couldn’t do a thing with Horace after he’d taken his shot at the feller who potted one of Olaf’s cows. Ol’ Tank Williams was huge in size an’ had a ponderous deep voice which rumbled around in him like a bulldog croakin’ in a barrel; an’ he decided that it was his duty to be firm with Horace, seein’ the way ’at he had bluffed him when we went on that trip for the nerves; so the follerin’ mornin’ he put a scowl on his face, grabbed Horace by the chest of his shirt, lifted him so ’at nothin’ but the tips of his toes touched, an’ sez: “Look here, you little whippersnapper, we agreed to go where you said an’ stay as long as you said; but we meant on a game-huntin’ trip. You haven’t any idee what you’re up again’ out here, an’ you got to give in an’ come back with us.”

Tank’s free eye rolled about in his head, runnin’ wilder ’n I’d ever seen it; but Horace wasn’t as much phazed as if a fly had bit him. He scowled down his eyebrows, an’ piped out in his squeaky tenor: “Take your hand off me, Tank—and take it off now.”

“I’ve a notion to raise it up an’ squash ya,” sez Tank.

“Yes,” sez Horace, without blinkin’ a winker, “you’ve got notions all right; but they lie so far to the interior of ya that they generally weaken before they find their way out. Take your hand off me.”

Well, Tank was beat. He gave Horace a shove, but Horace was light on his feet, an’ he never lost his balance. He just danced backward until he had his brakes set, an’ then he fetched up in front o’ the fire, put his fists on his hips, an’ stared up at Tank haughty.

“Ignorance,” sez he, “is the trouble with most people. The ignorant allus judge by appearances. If body-size was what really counted, why, we’d have an elephant for an emperor. Instead of which we use ’em to push logs around. Goliath did a lot o’ talkin’ about squashin’ David, but as soon as David got around to it, he fixed Goliath all ready for the coroner. Napoleon was of small size, an’ fat, an’ nervous, but he didn’t count it a fair day’s work unless he had presented one of his relatives with a full-sized kingdom. Where are the buffalos—where are they—the big clumsy brutes! They’re shut up out o’ harm’s way, that’s where they are; but where are the mosquitoes? Why the mosquitoes are takin’ life easy at all the fashionable summer resorts. If you feel like freightin’ your big, fat carcass back to where it don’t run any risk o’ bein’ bumped into, why go ahead; but I’m goin’ to stick around here an’ see what happens.”

Well, there we were: we didn’t none of us have the courage to own up ’at we were afraid of anything ’at Horace wasn’t afraid of; so we decided to stick with him, but that he had to take the blame. It was Tillte Dutch who said this, an’ Horace looked at him an’ grinned. “Take the blame?” sez he. “Why you big chump, it’s the small-sized men who allus take the blame. The big boobs rush about, makin’ a lot o’ noise; but they only do what the small-sized men tell ’em to. I’ll take the blame all right, an’ if you back me up, you’ll be right pleased to have a share in the kind o’ blame the’s goin’ to be. This Ty Jones outfit is nothin’ but a set o’ cowardly bullies who sneak around in the dark doin’ underhanded work; but I intend to let the daylight in.”

“I’ll bet the daylight will be let in, somewhere,” sez I; “but I’m just fool enough to stick with ya.”

Tank was still smartin’ from the way it had been handed to him. “Say,” sez he, “p’raps you don’t know it; but that David you was cacklin’ about a while ago wasn’t nothin’ but a sheep-herder.”

“That don’t change no brands,” sez Horace, who didn’t have any more use for a sheep-herder ’n we did. “He was a small-sized man, an’ he just drove sheep a while to help his father out. Sheep-herdin’ wasn’t his regular trade. Bossin’ men an’ fightin’ an’ bein’ a king was his natural line o’ business. It allus seems to me ’at big, overgrown men ought to be sheep-herders, so they could drive about in house-wagons, an’ not wear down so many good hosses.”

Ol’ Tank slammed about, makin’ a lot o’ noise; but he had lost this deal, an’ it was plain to see.

“I’m goin’ to ride over to Olaf’s, an’ tell him about what happened last night, an’ say ’at we’ll keep an eye on his stuff if so be he wants to take a little trip to Billings,” said Horace; and when he started I went along with him. At first Olaf was so white-hot about havin’ another cow killed that he couldn’t think; but finally he looked at Horace a long time, an’ said: “You have very brave flame, an’ you speak true. I shall go to Billings, an’ trust everything with you.”

I was flabbergasted clear out o’ line at this; but Olaf packed some stuff on one hoss, flung his saddle on another, an’ set off at once. Now, I knew Olaf to be slow an’ stubborn, an’ I couldn’t see through this.

After Olaf had rode out o’ sight to the north, Horace sez: “Has he allus been crazy?”

“He’s not crazy,” sez I.

“Then what did he mean by sayin’ I had a very brave flame an’ that I spoke true?” sez Horace. “Course he’s crazy. Didn’t you notice his eyes.”

“Yes,” I sez, “I’ve noticed his eyes a lot; but I don’t think he’s crazy—except in thinkin’ ’at Kit Murray’ll marry him. Why, she would as soon think o’ marryin’ a he-bear as Olaf.”

“Well, I think they have drove him crazy,” sez Horace; “but I’m goin’ to bestir myself in his favor.”

He took himself as serious as if he had been Napoleon an’ David both; an’ I could smell trouble plain. We decided to move our camp down to Olaf’s, an’ wrangle his herd into the Spread every night. Pearl Crick Spread was as fine a little valley as a body ever saw; filled with cottonwoods an’ snugglin’ down out o’ the wind behind high benches. The crick came in through a gorge, an’ went out through a gorge; an’ it was plain to me that the Spread was worth fightin’ for.

When we got back to the camp we found that a couple o’ Cross brand boys had happened along, by accident, of course, an’ were tryin’ to swap news o’ the weather for news o’ the neighbors. Our crowd hadn’t loosened up none; and as soon as we came back the Cross-branders left.

Horace looked pleased. “I bet I got one of ’em last night,” sez he, shakin’ his head.

Well, we all grinned, we couldn’t help it. “I bet you get another chance at ’em, too,” sez Slim. Our outfit had been peaceable for so long that the prospect of trouble actually made us feel nervous enough to show it.

We moved down to Olaf’s, and each night we fetched in his little bunch o’ cows, an’ allus kept up some hosses in the corral. The Cross-branders used to wander by our place purty frequent, but allus in the matter o’ business.

One day, after we’d been livin’ at Olaf’s about a week, Badger-face Flannigan, an’ a pair of as mean-lookin’ Greasers as ever I saw, came ridin’ along. Me an’ Horace had been up in the hills after some fresh meat, an’ we see them before they saw us. They were ridin’ slow an’ snoopin’ about to see what they could pick up, an’ when they saw us they looked a bit shifty for a moment.

Then Badger wrinkled up his face in what was meant for a friendly grin, an’ sez: “Hello, fellers. Have you-un’s bought Olaf out?”

“Nope,” sez I. “We’re just out here for a little huntin’; an’ Olaf got us to look after his stuff for a few days while he went visitin’.”

“Wasn’t the’ any huntin’ closer to home?” sez Badger-face, a little sarcastic.

“Not the kind o’ huntin’ we prefer,” sez Horace, sort o’ dreamy like.

Badger-face drilled a look into Horace, who had put on his most no-account expression. “What’s your favorite game,” sez he, “snow-shoe rabbits?”

“Oh, no,” drawled Horace as if he felt sleepy, “silver-tips an’ humans is our favorite game; but o’ course the spring is the best time—for silver-tips.”

“Where might you be from?” asked Badger-face.

“I might be from Arizona or Texas,” sez Horace; “but I ain’t. I’m a regular dude. Can’t you tell by my whiskers?”

Badger-face was so puzzled when Horace gave a little rat-laugh that I had to laugh too; and ya could see the blood come into Badger’s cheeks, but still, he couldn’t savvy this sort o’ game, so he couldn’t quite figure out how to start anything.

Horace had practiced what he called a muscle-lift, which he said he used to see the other kids do on parallel bars; and now he slipped to the ground an’ tightened his cinch an’ cussed about the way it had come loose, as natural as life. Then he put one hand on the horn an’ the other on the cantle an’ drew himself up slow. He kept on pushin’ himself after his breast had come above the saddle until he rested at arm’s length. Then he flipped his right leg over, an’ took his seat as though it was nothin’ at all. Any one could see it was a genuwine stunt, though it was of no earthly use to a ridin’ man.

Now, just because the’ was no sense to this antic, it made more of an impression on Badger-face than the fanciest sort o’ shootin’ or ropin’ would ’a’ done; an’ he puzzled over what sort of a speciment Horace might be, till it showed in his face.

“Come on down an’ have supper with us,” sez Horace. “You can see for yourself what the prospect for fresh meat is; so you can be sure of a welcome.”

“No, we can’t very well come this evenin’,” sez Badger-face.

“Why not?” sez Horace. “You look to me like a man who was gettin’ bilious for the want of a little sociability. Come on down an’ we’ll swap stories, an’ have a few drinks, an’ I’ll sing ya the best song you ever hearkened to.”

“No, we got to be goin’,” sez Badger-face; an’ he an’ the Greasers rode off while Horace chuckled under his breath as merry as a magpie.

“That’s what you call a bad man, is it?” sez he. “I tell you that feller’s a rank coward.”

“Would you have the nerve to pick up a horn-toad?” sez I.

“No,” sez he; “cause they’re poison.”

“They ain’t no more poison ’n a frog is,” I sez; “but most people thinks they are, an’ that is why strangers are afraid of ’em. Now, Badger-face ain’t no coward. He’s a shootin’ man; but he can’t make you out, an’ this is what makes him shy of ya.”

“Well,” sez Horace, “I’d rather be a free horn-toad than a mule in harness. Come on, let’s go eat.”

The next afternoon Horace went along to help bring in the bunch o’ cattle; an’ some one up on the hill took a shot at him. He couldn’t ride up the hill, so he hopped off the pony, an’ started up on foot. Mexican Slim was closest to him, an’ he started after; but the feller got away without leavin’ any trace. Horace was wonderful pleased about it, an’ strutted more than common.

“There now,” sez he after supper; “do you mean to tell me ’at that feller wasn’t a coward? Why the’ ain’t enough sand in their whole outfit to blind a flea!”

We just set an’ smoked in silence. When a feller as little as him once begins to crow, the’s nothin’ to do but wait till his spurs get clipped.