Riding northward after he had left the hills which lay along the line between the Double X and the Bar H, to find and follow the trail used by the Double X punchers when they rode to and from Gunsight, Johnny was nearing it when he saw a horseman far to the north, riding at speed down a hill and headed straight for him. Keeping on, Johnny turned into the trail in the direction of the Double X bunkhouse, whereupon the other changed his course and rode as if to head him off. From the way in which the other stuck up above the horse, Johnny thought him to be Slim Hawkes, and he pulled Pepper to a walk, rolling a cigarette while he loafed along. His surmise was correct, and soon Slim joined him, his look of suspicion having some time back given way to a smile.

"Hello, Nelson!" he cried. "Lost?"

"Not quite," answered Johnny, smiling in turn. "How are you?"

"Cheerful, if not handsome," grinned Slim. "Judgin\' from th\' way yo\'re headed, I reckon yo\'re headed my way. Wolf Forbes chase you away from his pet mavericks?"

"Didn\'t see him down there. What\'s he doin\'—trainin\' \'em?"

"Keepin\' \'em from strayin\' over on us," growled[183] Slim. "If he\'d \'a\' seen you there he\'d \'a\' been plumb nasty."

"Then I\'m glad he didn\'t," replied Johnny. "I don\'t like people to be nasty to me. It hurts my feelin\'s; I\'m what you might call tender."

"Lookin\' you over, I\'d say you was," retorted Slim.

"I\'m aimin\' to pay you fellers a visit," said Johnny. "Bein\' so tender, I won\'t stay long if I ain\'t treated nice, or if yore cook is worse than George."

"Yo\'re welcome if you has money with you," laughed Slim. "We make it a point to entertain visitors with plenty of poker. Which reminds me that this must be visitors\' week on th\' Double X. Larry Hallock\'s three brothers is visitin\' him, an\' Pete Wiggins\' boy, Arch, dropped in last night. Arch quit th\' Circle 4 an\' was goin\' to Highbank to see his dad, an\' spend his month\'s wages. He\'s still able to go an\' see his dad, but there ain\'t no danger of him spendin\' any of them wages in town. He can\'t leave us, now. We got him interested in our entertainment an\' he ain\'t got no money left. He aims to stay around an\' get it back. We aim to get his hoss an\' fixin\'s, an\' then lend \'em to him so he can go down an\' strike old Wiggins for enough to redeem \'em. Th\' Hallock boys are doin\' a little better, but we have hopes. Now that yo\'re headed for our web, I\'m shore everythin\' will be real cheerful. Anyhow, we\'ll make you welcome, little stranger, for we\'ve got ideas about you that have kept grins on th\' faces of our outfit. Th\' boys are honin\' to pump you. Has th\' Doc been kidnapped again, or has Squint come back?"

[184]

"Neither of them calamities has happened," chuckled Johnny. "How much can th\' Double X scrape up, in case I makes up my mind to stay a week?"

"Four dollars an\' two bits. I\'m aimin\' to play \'em so that you\'ll have to put up that black wonder yo\'re ridin\'. I shore can use her for my very own ridin\' hoss."

"This cayuse won\'t never put no interest in gamblin\'," said Johnny, stroking a glossy shoulder. "She\'s my pardner."

"I\'d say she was northern raised," guessed Slim. "Them north ranges shore do make a difference in stock. I\'ve heard of Texas ponies puttin\' on a couple of hundred pounds, \'an\' even growin\' higher, up there. \'Tin-Cup,\'" he read. "Where\'s that located? I never saw that brand before."

"Up in Montanny," replied Johnny. "I worked for it, an\' bought this cayuse while th\' brand was still red. She\'s got blood in her, I\'m tellin\' you."

"I knowed that as fur as I could see her," replied Slim. "But you ain\'t no Northerner. Did you go up with a trail herd, an\' stay over?"

"No, I went up by myself. Went up to help a friend spread th\' gospel over his ranch, which was done proper. It\'s fine country, but it\'s gettin\' crowded."

"See many Texas an\' Greaser cattle up there?"

"Shore; we wasn\'t so far from th\' Musselshell. They\'re on th\' trail all th\' time. An\' they ain\'t loved a whole lot, neither. Th\' northern punchers try to keep their herds from grazin\' too close to th\' trails. They\'re plumb scared about Texas fever. Sometimes a[185] trail herd will pick up quite a lot of local cattle, an\' when they\'re cut out they\'re mostly held on a range by themselves over a winter, until th\' danger is reckoned to be past. You can\'t blame \'em, for th\' fever raises th\' very devil in northern herds. I know what I\'m talkin\' about, because some fever cattle was throwed over on th\' Tin-Cup by some two-laigged skunks, an\' we had one busy time, I\'ll admit. It went through our cattle like fire through dead grass; an\' if it hadn\'t been for an Englishman, with plenty of brains in his decivin\' head, it would \'a\' been good-by Tin-Cup. It was a squeak for us. How\'s everythin\' with you fellers?"

"Our troubles are periodics," replied Slim. "We\'ll have a long stretch of peace an\' quiet, an\' then things will happen in bunches, an\' keep us crow-hoppin\' all over th\' range. We got our southeast section tamed, but our west section boils over every once in a while. Even when it ain\'t boilin\', or even simmerin\', we have got to watch it close. An\' it\'s generally on th\' simmer. If you go broke a-visitin\' us, which I hopes you do, you can earn quite some cash. All you got to do is to go over in th\' Snake Buttes country, just west of us, an\' get Nevada for us. We\'ll pay five hundred dollars for his body, an\' a hundred apiece for each of his men. I\'ve heard tell about th\' Hole in th\' Wall, up north, but I reckon we\'ve got its first cousin down here, right next door to us. We have to keep four men on our west section day an\' night. Don\'t you never ride out there for fun—we shoots first, an\' then finds out who it was."

"Nevada!" mused Johnny, "who is he?"

[186]

"Some say he\'s white, others, a half-breed," answered Slim. "Nobody I ever met knew anythin\' about him, except that he come from Nevada. While I never saw him, I shore heard an\' felt his lead one night; an\' if he can shoot that good in th\' dark, by ear, I ain\'t honin\' to meet him for fun an\' excitement in th\' daytime when he can use his eyes. He skinned my ear, put one through my arm, another cut my shoulder, one went through my hat, th\' fourth grazed my side, an\' th\' fifth killed my cayuse. It sounded like a loud r-i-i-i-p! Since then I don\'t make no noise at night out there. I imitates a ghost when I move around, an\' I\'m on full cock, with a hair trigger, every minute, which is some strain."

"How\'d it happen?" asked Johnny.

"We was roundin\' up last fall, an\' had a beef herd we was holdin\'. Th\' night come on windy an\' rainy, but there wasn\'t no lightnin\' or thunder. Four of us was ridin\' th\' middle trick an\' singin\' plenty as we went around. Th\' herd had fed heavy an\' was well watered, an\' tired, an\' we wasn\'t worryin\' much about it. Just after midnight we heard a rumble from behind us, an\' th\' whole herd was on its feet like one cow. It was a small bunch of stampeded cattle, an\' when it hit our herd everythin\' went that had hoofs. Th\' cook, back in th\' waggin\', was awake because of a leak over his bed-roll, an\' as soon as he heard th\' rumble he let out a yell an\' woke up th\' off-shifts. They had their cayuses tied to th\' waggin, or staked out close at hand, an\' they forked \'em quick. Tom Wilkes saw my six-gun flashes an\' he joins me. We lean against one end of th\' front[187] rank of our bunch, tryin\' to turn \'em, an\' get \'em to mill; but it wasn\'t no use. Th\' herd had split up into bunches, an\' our bunch run for half an hour southwest. When we finally got \'em millin\', an\' then busted that up, they figgered they had all th\' runnin\' they wanted an\' behaved themselves. I rode back to take th\' rear when I heard what sounded like another bunch runnin\' west, quite a ways north of us. I sung out to Tom that I\'d be back, an\' streaked up to give a hand with th\' other herd. When I got to it I rode right up front an\' sung out that I was givin\' a hand. My mouth wasn\'t hardly shut before I got in th\' way of that stream of lead I told you about I got my gun workin\', but I was afoot an\' had to hear th\' herd leave me behind. Managin\' to get my saddle off, I hoofed it for th\' cook\'s fire, which was blazin\' high when I got to where I could see it. By th\' time I got there th\' rain was comin\' down in sheets, an\' I was done up. They got away with over forty head, as near as we could figger it, an\' th\' rain had smoothed them sandy valleys over in th\' Buttes so they didn\'t show a print. We wouldn\'t \'a\' follered far, anyhow—Nevada likes ambushes, an\' that country was made for \'em."

"I\'ve been through it," growled Johnny. "There\'s th\' fourth muley I\'ve seen in ten minutes," he said, nodding to the right.

"He was made a muley by a saw," replied Slim. "That feller was a bloody-minded terror. He\'s cost this ranch a dozen times what he was ever worth. We don\'t know what was th\' matter with him—just born savage, I reckon. He killed an\' ruined a lot of young[188] steers before we got onto him. At first we was goin\' to kill him; then we said he had been so all-fired mean that he ought to be punished. So we sawed off his horns an\' turned him loose to play with th\' rest of th\' long-horns. He got some good lickin\'s before he learned that he wasn\'t dangerous no more. He got mauled so much before he quit his mean ways that we sort of felt sorry for him. Here comes Quantrell. He\'s our segundo, an\' boss of our trail outfit. Good man, all around. Hey! Look at that old reprobate go for him! What do you think of that? Cimarron was th\' man who sawed off his horns, an\' cussed if he don\'t remember it!"

The approaching rider evaded the charge, fired close to the steer\'s nose as the animal went past, which turned its chain of thought, and rode up laughing.

"Did you see th\' old boy?" he chuckled.

"Reg\'lar friend of yourn," laughed Slim. "Here, shake han\'s with Nelson. He\'s comin\' out to show us how to play draw—an\' his pockets are full of money."

"Yo\'re welcome," said Cimarron, grinning, his hand-clasp solid and sincere. "Better put yore rope on him, Slim, in case he gets scared off."

Laughing and chatting they rode westward until about mid-afternoon when, hungry as wolves, they arrived at the bunkhouse, where Cimarron dared the sanctity of the cook shack to rustle warm, if rather dried-out food, from the back of the stove; and they ate to the frank and personal comments of several loafing onlookers. The rest of the afternoon was passed in discussions and reminiscences of things concerning[189] range activities and in telling stories about men they had known. It was not long before other men began to come in from the range and the cook showed signs of activity. When he was ready he let out a yell: "Are you all a-comin\'?" They were, and ate hungrily, for the most part in silence, listening to the three who had enjoyed a late dinner and who could take time to talk. Four men soon arose and exchanged banter as they looked to tobacco, guns, and other things requiring their attention and, saying good-by, went out to the corral. They had the first night shift on the west section and soon were riding away. Hardly two hours later another four-man group came in, fell upon the second meal the cook had prepared in less than three hours, and then loafed, joining in the conversation.

"How\'s things over Gunsight way?" Cimarron asked Johnny.

"Just th\' same, I reckon," came the answer. "Everything is all right, a cussed sight better than they are further east. It\'s a shame, too; a cussed shame."

"Meanin\'?" queried Lin Sherwood, the foreman, a tall, wiry man of about forty years, whose broad, sloping shoulders suggested great strength. His face was frank and kindly, and his steel-blue eyes twinkled from their frames of wrinkles in a manner to win Johnny the moment he had looked into them.

"I\'m meanin\' that old man with th\' busted laig, over on th SV," answered Johnny; "an\' that kid, an\' that helpless girl. Do you know they ain\'t had no round-up in three years, neither calf nor beef?"

"What\'s that?" exclaimed Cimarron in surprise.[190] "That ain\'t no way to run a ranch. Ain\'t they done no brandin\' at all?"

"Ain\'t had an iron hot in three years," replied Johnny.

"What\'s th\' matter with \'em?" demanded Matt Webb.

"They can\'t keep an outfit," answered Johnny. "Every time they hired a man he was either scared off or bribed to quit. After a while they gave it up. Three of their men are workin\' on th\' Triangle, or th\' Bar H right now."

"Then they didn\'t lose a whole lot," snorted Art French.

"If they don\'t round up, how do they know where they are?" asked Bud Norris. "How do they know how many cows they got, or if they\'re runnin\' at a profit or a loss?"

"They don\'t," answered Johnny. "But there ain\'t no round-up necessary to tell \'em about profit an\' loss. They can see th\' herds shrinkin\', it\'s so plain; an\' when they has to sell off a few head every time they needs chuck, I reckon they know about th\' profit an\' loss. They want to have a round-up just to get a tally of th\' cattle now on th\' ranch. Knowing how many there was from th\' tally th\' year they took possession, they could tell what their losses are. But how can they hold one, without punchers?"

"They ought to know," said Slim. "But that wouldn\'t help \'em much, at that. It would only make \'em feel worse, I reckon."

"Their herds ain\'t got no business to shrink, not on[191] a range like theirs," said Bud. "If they ain\'t throwed many on th\' trail they ought to have more now than they had three years ago. Cattle don\'t stop multiplyin\' just because they ain\'t rounded up once in a while!"

"Mebby their cattle are different, then," said Johnny. "An\' there\'s one thing shore: I never saw so few mavericks on any ranch as there are on th\' SV; nor so d—d many as I saw on th\' Bar H. Why, when I was on th\' Bar-20, down in th\' Pecos Valley, we wouldn\'t \'a\' let no ranch close to us hold so many unbranded cows."

"Where did you say?" quickly demanded Bill Dusenberry, who answered to the name of "Deuce."

"Bar-20," replied Johnny, "down in th\' Pecos."

"Did you ever hear of Lacey?" excitedly asked Deuce.

"Lacey? Why, he run a saloon, over in Perry\'s Bend; an\' he was a white man clean through."

"Holy mackerel!" cried Deuce. "Was you one of Peter\'s outfit?"

"I was near since I was old enough to throw a rope," answered Johnny, a pleased grin coming to his face. "Did you know Lacey, or Buck?"

"Lacey is my cousin," exclaimed Deuce. He turned to his friends. "We ain\'t goin\' to have no poker tonight. This feller is goin\' to entertain us with th\' doin\'s of th\' cussedest he-man outfit that ever lived under one roof. Lacey has told me just enough to get me on th\' prod—an\' here\'s a man who was one of that outfit. You can begin with that cow-skinner you fellers went to Perry\'s Bend after. I\'m tellin\' you that if you[192] can show as that you belonged to that hair-trigger outfit there ain\'t nothin\' Bill Dusenberry an\' his friends won\'t do for you. What was that cow-skinner\'s name, an\' where did he die?"

"I\'m glad to meet a relative of Lacey\'s," replied Johnny, smiling. "Lacey turned a buffalo gun loose on that gang of rustlers when they had me in Jackson\'s store after they had killed Edwards. As to Jerry Brown, he died in some sort of a church, or mission, or somethin\' like that. He shot me in Harlan\'s saloon, shootin\' through his coat pocket, th\' skunk. Speakin\' of mavericks, you fellers all know that if th\' natural increase ain\'t branded yo\'re goin\' to have a fine crop of unbranded cattle; an\' if there ain\'t no calves branded for three years, yo\'re shore goin\' to have one slashin\' big herd of mavericks. Now, if them mavericks wander off th\' ranch there ain\'t no tellin\' what\'ll happen to \'em. An\' if they ain\'t allowed to git back again, or ain\'t kept off some other ranch, somebody\'s goin\' to have a fine lot of cattle that can be marked with any brand they feels like puttin\' on \'em. They won\'t even have to be vent branded: they can be sold, an\' th\' first an\' only brand they start with can be th\' sign of th\' man that buys \'em. With a road brand to take \'em over th\' trail, there ain\'t nobody can question \'em, is there? At least not down in this country, where there ain\'t no laws to question \'em."

"Yo\'re right!" exclaimed Slim, his eyes glowing with a sudden inspiration. "Where have our brains been all this time? Reckon we was too busy out on our west line to do much thinkin\' about other things."

[193]

"Yes, an\' none of \'em will be much more than three years old," said Cimarron, looking around the room, where various expressions met his eye. "A plumb fine lot of unbranded cattle, runnin\' up to three-year-olds, ready for any iron. I\'ve been as dumb as a locoed dogie!"

"Lin," said Gus Thompson, turning to the foreman, "I\'m tellin\' you that when folks get th\' maverick habit, an\' ain\'t bothered, they get so, after a while, that they don\'t care a whole lot where them mavericks come from; an\' you know that there are some parts of our ranch that are plumb heavy with scrub timber, brush, an\' rough ground."

"Tell us about Perry\'s Bend," impatiently demanded Deuce.

"Tell us about yore gran\'mother\'s cat!" snorted Bill Sage. "That can wait: Nelson\'s goin\' to stay here a couple of nights, anyhow." He looked around. "I\'m beginnin\' to see through th\' holes in th\' ladder; an\' I\'m honin\' to listen to why th\' SV don\'t show no mavericks, when it ain\'t had a spring round-up for three years. Does it sleeper?"

"Not an earnotch," interjected Tom Wilkes. "You ought to know that, you flathead; you\'ve seen enough SV cattle, anyhow."

"Mebby Nelson can explain it," suggested the foreman.

"I\'m willin\' to talk it over, anyhow," said Johnny. "In th\' first place, there\'s natural enemies."

"Then you can leave \'em in th\' first place," laughed Slim. "There ain\'t none, that I knows of, down here."

[194]

"Well, then, there\'s them quicksands," continued Johnny, gravely. "Cattle are plumb fascinated by quicksands——"

"Huh!" snorted Cimarron, "you ain\'t figgerin\' them sands are takin\' th\' increase of three whole years, are you?"

"Or pickin\' mavericks, as a choice?" grunted Matt Webb.

"They\'d be so full of bones if they got three years\' calves," said Bud, "that you could build a shack............