A Man Four-Square | Page 7

that within forty-eight hours a band of about
twenty Mescalero bucks had returned to camp this way from an
antelope hunt and that they carried with them half a dozen pronghorns.
It was a safe guess that they were part of the large camp the smoke of
which he had seen.

Long before the young man struck the drive, he knew he was close by
the cloud of dust and the bawling of the cattle. His course across
country had been so accurate that he hit the herd at the point without
deflecting.
An old Texan drew up, changed his weight on the saddle to rest himself,
and hailed the youngster.
"Goin' somewheres, kid, or just ridin'?" he asked genially.
"Just takin' my hawss out for a jaunt so's he won't get hog-fat," grinned
the boy.
The Texan chewed tobacco placidly and eyed the cowpony. The horse
had been ridden so far that he was a bag of bones.
"Looks some gaunted," he commented.
"Four Bits is so thin he won't throw a shadow," admitted the boy.
"Come a right smart distance, I reckon?"
"You done said it."
"Where you headin' for?"
"For Deaf Smith County. I got an uncle there. Saw your dust an'
dropped over to tell you that a big bunch of 'Paches are camped just
ahead of you."
The older man looked at him keenly. "How do you know, son?"
"Smelt their smoke an' cut their trail."
"Know Injuns, do you?"
"I trailed with Al Sieber 'most two years."
To have served with Sieber for any length of time was a certificate of

efficiency. He was the ablest scout in the United States Army. Through
his skill and energy Geronimo and his war braves were later forced to
give themselves up to the troops.
"'Nuff said. Are these 'Paches liable to make us any trouble?"
"Yes, sir. I think they are. They're a bunch of broncos from the
reservation an' they have been across the line stealin' horses an'
murderin' settlers. They will sure try to stampede your cattle an' run off
a lot of 'em."
"Hmp! You better go back an' see old man Webb about it. What's yore
name, kid?"
For just an eye-beat the boy hesitated. "Call me Jim Thursday."
A glimmer of a smile rested in the eyes of the Texan. He was willing to
bet that this young fellow would not have given him that name if to-day
had not happened to be the fifth day of the week. But it was all one to
the cowpuncher. To question a man too closely about his former
residence and manner of life was not good form on the frontier.
"I'll call you Jim from Sunday to Saturday," he said, pulling a tobacco
pouch from his hip pocket. "My name is Wrayburn--Dad Wrayburn, the
boys call me."
The Texan shouted to the man riding second on the swing. "Oh, you,
Billie Prince!"
A tanned, good-looking young fellow cantered up.
"Meet Jimmie Thursday, Billie," the old-timer said by way of
introduction. "This boy says there's heap many Injuns on the war-path
right ahead of us. I reckon I'll let you take the point while I ride back
with him an' put it up to the old man."
The "old man" turned out to be a short, heavy-set Missourian who had
served in the Union Army and won a commission by intelligence and

courage. Wherever the name of Homer Webb was known it stood for
integrity and square-dealing. His word was as good as a signed bond.
Webb had come out of the war without a cent, but with a very definite
purpose. During the last year of the Confederacy, while it was tottering
to its fall, he had served in Texas. The cattle on the range had for years
been running wild, the owners and herdsmen being absent with the
Southern army. They had multiplied prodigiously, so that many
thousands of mavericks roamed without brand, the property of any one
who would round them up and put an iron on their flanks. The money
value of them was very little. A standard price for a yearling was a plug
of tobacco. But Webb looked to the future. He hired two riders,
gathered together a small remuda of culls, and went into the cattle
business with energy. To-day the Flying V Y was stamped on forty
thousand longhorns.
The foreman of the Flying V Y was riding with the owner of the brand
at the drag end of the herd. He was a hard-faced citizen known as Joe
Yankie. When Wrayburn had finished his story, the foreman showed a
row of tobacco-stained teeth in an unpleasant grin.
"Same old stuff, Dad. There always is a bunch of bucks off the
reservation an' they're always just goin' to run