cook had gravely declared "out uh sight for saddle-galls."

Hank Graves, when he heard the story, with artistic touches from
the cook, slapped his thigh and laughed one of his soundless
chuckles. "The son-of-a-gun! He's the right stuff. Never
whined, eh? I knew it. He's his dad over again, from the ground
up." And loved him the better.



CHAPTER IV

THE TRAIL-HERD

Thurston tucked the bulb of his camera down beside the bellows
and closed the box with a snap. "I wonder what old Reeve would
say to that view," he mused aloud.

"Old who?"

"Oh, a fellow back in New York. Jove! he'd throw up his
dry-point heads and take to oils and landscapes if he could see
this."

The "this" was a panoramic view of the town and surrounding
valley of Billings. The day was sunlit and still, and far
objects stood up with sharp outlines in the clear atmosphere.
Here and there the white tents of waiting trail-outfits
splotched the bright green of the prairie. Horsemen galloped to
and from the town at top speed, and a long, grimy red stock