A Man Four-Square | Page 9

a modulated rebel
yell.
"Dad burn my hide, Jimmie-Go-Get-'Em, you're all right. Fustest time I
ever saw Joe take water, but he shorely did splash some this here
occasion. I wouldn't 'a' missed it for a bunch of hog-fat yearlin's."
Webb had not been sorry to see his arrogant foreman brought up with a
sharp turn, but in the interest of discipline he did not care to say so.
"Why can't you boys get along peaceable with Joe, I'd like to know?
This snortin' an' pawin' up the ground don't get you anything."
"I reckon Joe does most of the snortin' that's done," Wrayburn
answered dryly. "I ain't had any trouble with him, because he spends a
heap of time lettin' me alone. But there's no manner of doubt that Joe
rides the boys too hard."
The drover dismissed the subject and turned to Thursday.
"Want a job?"
"Mebbe so."
"I need another man. Since you sabe the ways of the 'Paches I can use
you to scout ahead for us."

"What you payin'?"
"Fifty a month."
"You've hired a hand."
"Good enough. Better pick one of the boys to ride with you while you
are out scoutin'."
"I'll take Billie Prince," decided the new rider at once.
"You know Billie?"
"Never saw him before to-day. But I like his looks. He's a man to tie
to."
"You're right he is."
The drover looked at his new employee with a question in his shrewd
eyes. The boy was either a man out of a thousand or he was a first-class
bluffer. He claimed to have cut Indian sign and to know exactly what
was written there. At a single glance he had sized up Prince and knew
him for a reliable side partner. Without any bluster he had served notice
on Yankie that it would be dangerous to pick on him as the butt of his
ill-temper.
In those days, on the Pecos, law lay in a holster on a man's thigh. The
individual was a force only so far as his personality impressed itself
upon his fellows. If he made claims he must be prepared to back them
to a fighting finish.
Was this young Thursday a false alarm? Or was he a good man to let
alone when one was looking for trouble? Webb could not be sure yet,
though he made a shrewd guess. But he knew it would not he long
before he found out.
Chapter II

Shoot-a-Buck Cañon
Webb sent for Billie Prince.
"Seems there's a bunch of bronco 'Paches camped ahead of us, Billie.
Thursday here trailed with Sieber. I want you an' him to scout in front
of us an' see we don't run into any ambush. You're under his orders, y'
understand."
Prince was a man of few words. He nodded.
"You know the horses that the boys claim. Well, take Thursday to the
remuda an' help him pick a mount from the extras in place of that
broomtail he's ridin'," continued the drover. "Look alive now. I don't
want my cattle stampeded because we haven't got sense enough to
protect 'em. No 'Paches can touch a hoof of my stock if I can help it."
"If they attack at all it will probably be just before daybreak, but it is
just as well to be ready for 'em," suggested Thursday.
"I brought along some old Sharps an' some Spencers. I reckon I'll have
'em loaded an' distribute 'em among the boys. Billie, tell Yankie to have
that done. The rifles are racked up in the calf wagon."
Billie delivered the orders of the drover to the foreman as they passed
on their way to the remuda. Joe gave a snort of derision, but let it go at
that. When Homer Webb was with one of his trail outfits he was always
its boss.
While Thursday watched him, Prince roped out a cinnamon horse from
the remuda. The cowpuncher was a long-bodied man, smooth-muscled
and lithe. The boy had liked his level eye and his clean, brown jaw
before, just as now he approved the swift economy of his motions.
Probably Billie was about twenty years of age, but in that country men
ripened young. Both of these lads had been brought up in that
rough-and-ready school of life which holds open session every day of
the year. Both had already given proofs of their ability to look out for

themselves in emergency. A wise, cool head rested on each of these
pairs of young shoulders. In this connection it is worth mentioning that
the West's most famous outlaw, Billie the Kid, a killer with twenty-one
notches on his gun, had just reached his majority when he met his death
some years later at the hands of Pat Garrett.
The new rider for the Flying