brothers Drinker. You'll go--let's see--"

Drake paused in his apportionment, and a sleigh came swiftly round the
turn, the horse loping and lathery.

"What vas dat shooting I hear joost now?" shouted Max Vogel, before he
could arrive. He did not wait for any answer. "Thank the good God!" he
exclaimed, at seeing the boy Dean Drake unharmed, standing with a gun.
And to their amazement he sped past them, never slacking his horse's lope
until he reached the corral. There he tossed the reins to the placid
Bolles, and springing out like a surefooted elephant, counted his
saddle-horses; for he was a general. Satisfied, he strode back to the
crowd by the demijohn. "When dem men get restless," he explained to Drake
at once, "always look out. Somebody might steal a horse."

The boy closed one gray, confidential eye at his employer. "Just my
idea," said he," when I counted 'em before breakfast."

"You liddle r-rascal," said Max, fondly, "What you shoot at?"

Drake pointed at the demijohn. "It was bigger than those bottles at
Nampa," said he. "Guess you could have hit it yourself."

Max's great belly shook. He took in the situation. It had a flavor that
he liked. He paused to relish it a little more in silence.

"Und you have killed noding else?" said he, looking at Uncle Pasco, who
blinked copiously. "Mine old friend, you never get rich if you change
your business so frequent. I tell you that thirty years now." Max's hand
found Drake's shoulder, but he addressed Brock. "He is all what you tell