Moze was loquacious and soon divulged all his knowledge of Deuce Ackerman and his comrades. “Yas, suh, dey’s de finest an’ fightenest boys I ever seen, dat’s shore,” concluded Moze. “I ben cookin’ fer two-t’ree years fer de U-V ootfit. Kurnel Miller run dat ootfit fust, an’ den sold oot to Jones. An’ yo bet Jones was sho glad to git rid of dem five boys. What wid shootin’ up de towns every pay day an’ sparkin’ Miss Molly, de Kurnel’s dotter, why, dat gennelman led a turrible life.”

“Wal, I reckon they weren’t no different from other boys where a pretty girl was concerned.”

“Yas, suh, dere wuz a difference, ‘cause dese boys wuz like twin brothers, an’ Miss Molly jes’ couldn’t choose among ‘em. She sho wanted ‘em all, so Mars Jones had to sell ‘em to yo along wid de cattle.”

“Wal, Moze, we shore might run into anythin’ along the old Trail,” replied Brite, with a laugh. “But it’s reasonable to hope there won’t be any girls till we reach Dodge.”

“Dat’s a hot ole town dese days, I heah, boss.”

“Haw! Haw! Just yu wait, Moze. …Wal, we’re catchin’ up with the herd, an’ from now it’ll be lazy driftin’ along.”

Soon Brite came up with the uneven, mile-wide rear of the herd. Four riders were in sight, and the first he reached was Hallett, who sat cross-legged in his saddle and let his pony graze along.

“How’re yu boys makin’ oot, Roy?”

“Jes’ like pie, boss, since we got up on the range,” was the reply. “There’s some mean old mossy-horns an’ some twisters in thet second herd of yores. Texas Joe shot two bulls before we got ’em leavin’ thet valley.”

“Bad luck to shoot cattle,” replied Brite, seriously.

“Wal, we’re short-handed an’ we gotta get there, which I think we never will.”

“Shore we will. …Where’s Reddie Bayne with the remuda?”

“Aboot a half over, I reckon. Thet’s Rolly next in line. He’s been helpin’ the kid with the remuda.”

“Ahuh. How’s Reddie drivin’?”

“Fine, boss. But thet’s a sight of hawses for one boy. Reckon he could wrangle them alone but fer them damn old mossy-horns.”

Brite passed along. Rolly Little was the next rider in line, and he appeared to be raising the dust after some refractory steers. Cows were bellowing and charging back, evidently wanting to return to calves left behind.

“Hey, boss, we got some onery old drags in this herd,” he sang out.

“Wal, have patience, Little, but don’t wear it oot,” called Brite.

The horses were grazing along in a wide straggling drove, some hundred yards or more behind the herd. Reddie Bayne on the moment was bending over the neck of his black, letting him graze. Brite trotted over to join him.

“Howdy, Reddie.”

“Howdy, Mr. Brite.”

“Wal, I’ll ride along with yu an’ do my share. Everythin’ goin’ good?”

“Oh yes, sir. I’m havin’ the time of my life,” rejoined the youth. He looked the truth of that enthusiastic assertion. What a singularly handsome lad! He looked younger than the sixteen years he had confessed to. His cheeks were not full, by any means, but they glowed rosily through the tan. In the broad sunlight his face shone clear cut, fresh and winning. Perhaps his lips were too red and curved for a boy.