who were bunkies, were constantly scuffling, reckless to the point of
injury, the pulse of healthy manhood beating a constant alarm to
rough contest.

The afternoon previous to the accident, a wayfaring man had overtaken
the herd, and spent the night with the trail outfit. During the evening,
a flock of sand-hill cranes was sighted, when the stranger expressed a
wish to secure a specimen of the bird for its splendid plumage. On
Forrest's own suggestion, his being a long-range pistol and the covey
wary, the two exchanged belts. The visitor followed the flock, stealing
within range a number of times, and emptying the six-shooter at every
chance. On securing a fine specimen near nightfall, he returned to the
herd, elated over his chance shot and beautiful trophy. However, before
returning the belt, he had refilled the cylinder with six instead of
five cartridges, thus resting the hammer on a loaded shell. In the
enthusiasm of the moment, and ignorant of its danger, belt and pistol
were returned to their owner.

Dawn found the camp astir. The sun had flooded the plain while the
outfit was breakfasting, the herd was grazing forward in pastoral
contentment, the horses stood under saddle for the morning's work, when
the trail foreman, Paul Priest, languidly remarked: "If everybody's
ready, we'll ride. Fill the canteens; it's high time we were in the
saddle. Of course, that means the parting tussle between Quince and the
wrangler. It would be a shame to deny those lads anything so enjoyable--
they remind me so much of mule colts and half-grown dogs. Now, cut in
and worry each other a spell, because you'll be separated until noon.
Fly at it, or we mount."

The two addressed never cast a glance at each other, but as the men