. . shore . . . rustled . . . all the line . . . aboot heah,” he drawled pantingly, as he threw lassoes and coils of rope at Neale’s feet.

Neale picked up some of the worn pieces. He looked dubious. “Is this all you could get?” he asked.

“Shore is. An’ thet includes what Casey rustled . . . from the soldiers.”

“Help me knot these,” went on Neale.

“Wal, I reckon this heah time I’ll go down before you,” drawled King.

Neale laughed, and looked curiously at his lineman. Back somewhere in Nebraska this cowboy from Texas had attached himself to Neale. They worked together and became friends. Larry Red King made no bones of the fact that Texas had grown too hot for him. He had been born with an itch to shoot. To Neale it seemed that King made too much of a service Neale had rendered—the mere matter of a helping hand. Still there had been danger.

“Go down before me!” Neale exclaimed.

“I reckon,” replied King.

“You will not,” rejoined the other bluntly. “I may not need you at all. What’s the sense of useless risk?”

“Wal, I’m goin’ . . . else I throw up my job.”

“Oh, hell!” burst out Neale, as he strained hard on a knot. Again he looked at his lineman, this time with something warmer than curiosity in his glance.

Larry Red King was tall, slim, hard as iron, yet somehow graceful in line—a singularly handsome and picturesque cowboy with flaming red hair and smooth face as red, and eyes of flashing blue.