maker in the bunch, except a half breed that I'm not particularly stuck on, and that I'm going to get rid of as soon as work gets slack. But take them all together I haven't got any kick coming.

"Of course," he qualified as he stopped to light his pipe, "they ain't what you could call angels, by a long shot. If any one's looking for anything like that, they won't find it on a ranch. Some pretty rough specimens drift out here from the East, who perhaps have had reasons for making a quick getaway. But as long as a man does his work and does it right, we don't ask any more about their past than they care to tell. It ain't etiquette out here to do that, and then too it sometimes leads to a man getting shot full of holes if he's too curious. Their language isn't apt to be any too refined and their table manners leave a lot to be desired. When pay day comes, most of their money goes to the saloons and dance halls in the towns. They're usually a pretty moody and useless bunch for a day or two after that. But in the main they're brave and square and friendly, and they sure do work hard for their forty-five a month and found. And if you get into a scrap they're a mighty handy lot of fellows to have at your back."

By this time they had reached the bunk house. As its name implied, it served as sleeping quarters for the men. It was a long one-story building covering a large area of ground. All one end of it was partitioned off into bunks to the number of thirty or more. The other half was used as a dining and living room. A long table, spread with oilcloth, extended down the center, with a row of chairs on either side. The walls were decorated with gaudy lithographs, circus posters and colored sheets taken from the Sunday papers that occasionally drifted out that way. On a side table were a number of well-thumbed magazines that Mrs. Melton had sent down for the men to read in their rare moments of leisure. Saddles and harness and lariats were hung on nails driven into the logs. Everything was rude and simple, but scrupulously clean. The floor had been recently swept and the oilcloth on the table was shining.

In a little extension at the southern end of the shack the cook was clearing away the dishes from breakfast and making ready for the noon-day meal. A couple of great dogs basked in the sunshine that streamed through the open door. They jumped to their feet as their owner approached and capered about him joyously in a manner that bespoke their attachment.

A lank, muscular man at this moment came around a corner of the house. His face was tanned to the color of mahogany and around his eyes were the tiny wrinkles that come to men accustomed to peer into the wide spaces. He had on a pair of sheepskin trousers with the fleece still adhering, and his long legs had the slight crook that spoke of a life spent almost entirely in the saddle. A buckskin shirt, a handkerchief knotted loosely around his neck and a broad slouch hat with a rattlesnake skin encircling it for a band completed his costume. There was about him the air of a man accustomed to be obeyed, and yet there was no swagger or truculence in his bearing. His glance was singularly fearless and direct, and the boys warmed to him at first sight.

"Just the man I wanted to see, Sandy," said his employer. "I want you to meet these three young friends of mine."

As their names were spoken the boys stepped forward and shook hands heartily.

"Mr. Clinch is one of the best foremen that ever rode the range or roped a steer," went on Melton, "and what he don't know about a ranch isn't worth knowing. I've got to go up to the house now to look over some accounts and I'm going to leave you in his care. You remember, Sandy, that little scrap in Mexico I told you about? Well, these are the boys that stood at my back. They've got a knack for getting into a shindy on the slightest provocation and I look to you to keep them out of trouble. I warn you though that it is a man's job."

"I guess I'm up to it, boss," grinned Sandy. "There ain't much chance for trouble round here, anyhow. There may be a look in if those ornery rustlers don't quit fooling with our cattle. But just at this minute things is plumb peaceful. I'm going up to the corral where the wranglers are breaking in some of the young horses, and perhaps these young fellers would like to come along."

Nothing possibly could suit them better, and while Mr. Melton retraced his steps to the house they followed the foreman to the corral.

There everything was animation and apparent confusion. The clatter of hoofs, the swish of lariats, the shouts of the "wranglers" as they sought to bring their wayward charges under control, while a matter of everyday routine to the cowboys themselves were entirely new to the boys, who leaned against the log fence and watched the proceedings with breathless interest.

There were two corrals of almost equal size, each covering several acres of ground, and a broad gate connected the two. In one of them were forty or more young horses who up to now had been running wild on the range. They had never known the touch of a whip or a spur, nor felt the weight of a rider. The nearest approach to constraint they had ever experienced was that furnished by the encircling fence of the corral into which they had been driven yesterday. That this was irksome and even terrifying was evident by their dilated nostrils, their wild expression, and the way they pawed at the bars and at times measured the height of the fence, as though contemplating a leap over it into the wide spaces beyond. But their instinct told them that they could not make it, and they ran around restlessly or pawed the ground uneasily, waiting their turn to be roped and broken.

When the boys reached the outer fence, one of them had just been caught by a whirling lariat and dragged, stubbornly protesting, into the adjoining corral. Once there he made a wild dash to escape and lashed out fiercely with his heels at the men who held him. But with a skill born of long experience they eluded him, and one of them, watching his chance, suddenly leaped on his back. The men, on either side, relinquished their hold, and retreated to a safe position on the fence.

Then commenced the most exciting struggle for mastery between brute and man that the boys had ever seen.

For a moment the broncho stood stock still, paralyzed with surprise and fright. Then he gave a mighty leap into the air in a vain endeavor to unseat the rider. This failing, he snapped viciously at the horseman's leg, which was instantly thrown up out of reach. Then the maddened brute rushed against the bars of the corral in an effort to crush the rider. But again the uplifted leg foiled the maneuver, and the severe scraping that the horse himself received took away from him all desire of repeating that particular trick.

All this time the cowboy showed the most extreme nonchalance. If anything, he seemed rather bored. And yet, despite his apparent stolidity, the boys noticed that he watched his mount like a hawk and always discounted each trick a second in advance. It was a fight between brute strength and human intelligence and the struggle was unequal. Barring accidents the latter was bound to win.

Like a flash the horse changed his tactics and went to the ground, intending to roll over and crush his rider. The movement was almost too quick to be followed by the eye. But the man was off at a bound and, when the astonished broncho struggled to his feet, his tormentor had again sprung on his back and was lashing him with the end of the rope that served as a halter.

Then the pony tried his last resource. Springing into the air he came down with all four feet held closely together. It would have jarred a novice out of his seat at once. But the superb horsemanship of the man on his back absorbed the shock with his tightly gripped legs as he descended, and he settled into his seat with the lightness of a feather.

For half an hour the battle was prolonged, and, to the breathlessly watching boys, it seemed