The interest in him increased, but it did not seem likely that anyone would question his pleasure.

Texas Joe left camp to climb the ridge from which he surveyed the valley. Evidently he was satisfied with what he saw. Brite’s opinion was that the cattle would not stray. It was unusual, however, to leave them unguarded for even a moment. Presently Smith appeared to be studying the land to the north. Upon his return to camp he announced.

“Trail riders haided for Santone. An’ there’s a lone hawseman ridin’ in from ‘cross country.”

“Wal, Shipman, we’ll shore see more riders than we want on this trip,” said Brite.

“Ahuh, I reckon.”

“Boss, yu mean painted riders?” spoke up Ackerman.

“Not particular, if we’re lucky. I had to feed a lot of Comanches last trip. But they made no trouble. I reckon the riders thet bother me most are the drifters an’ trail dodgers.”

“Boss, mebbe we’ll be an ootfit thet breed had better pass up,” drawled Shipman.

“Wal, I hope so. Yu cain’t never tell what yore ootfit is until it’s tried.”

“Tried by what, Mr. Brite?” asked the tenderfoot Bender, with great curiosity.

The boss laughed at this query. Before he could reply Shipman spoke up: “Boy, it’s jest what happens along.”

“Nothing happened today in all that nice long ride. I’ve an idea these trail dangers are exaggerated.”

Suddenly one of Ackerman’s boys let out a stentorian : “Haw! Haw!” This would probably have started something but for the cook’s yell following and almost as loud. “Yo-all come an’ git it!”

There ensued a merry scramble, and then a sudden silence. Hungry boys seldom wasted time to talk. Brite called for Moze to fetch his dinner over under the tree. It took no second glance for the boss to be assured that this cook was a treasure.

The sun set in a cloudless, golden sky. An occasional bawl of a cow from the stream bottom broke the silence. A cooling zephyr of wind came through the grove, rustling the leaves, wafting the camp-fire smoke away. Brite had a sense of satisfaction at being on the Trail again and out in the open. Much of his life had been spent that way.

“Moze, where yu from?” asked Shipman, as he arose.

“Ise a Alabama niggah, sah,” replied Moze, with a grin. “Thet’s what they calls me. Alabama.”

“Wal, so long’s yu feed me like this I’ll shore keep the redskins from scalpin’ yu.”

“Den I’ll be awful sho to feed yu dat way.”

“Wal, boys, I hate to say it, but we gotta get on guard,” went on Shipman, addressing the outfit. “There’s ten of us. Four on till midnight, three till three o’clock, an’ three till mawnin’. Who goes on duty with me now?”

They all united in a choice of this early-night duty.

“Shipman, I’ll take my turn,” added Brite.

“Wal, I’ll be dog-goned,” drawled the foreman. “What kind of an ootfit is this heah? Yu all want to work. An’ the boss, too!”

“Fust night oot,” said some one.

“I reckon I gotta make myself disliked,” returned Shipman, resignedly. “Bender, yu saddle yore hawse.