only they be not weaklings. There is no place anywhere in the Dean's
philosophy of life for a weakling. I heard him tell a man once--nor
shall I ever forget it--"You had better die like a man, sir, than live
like a sneaking coyote."

The Dean's sons, men grown, were gone from the home ranch to the fields
and work of their choosing. Little Billy, a nephew of seven years,
was--as Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin said laughingly--their second crop.

When Phil's horse--satisfied--lifted his dripping muzzle from the
watering trough, the Dean walked with his young foreman to the saddle
shed. Neither of the men spoke, for between them there was that
companionship which does not require a constant flow of talk to keep it
alive. Not until the cowboy had turned his horse loose, and was hanging
saddle and bridle on their accustomed peg did the older man speak.

"Jim Reid's goin' to begin breakin' horses next week."

"So I heard," returned Phil, carefully spreading his saddle blanket to
dry.

The Dean spoke again in a tone of indifference. "He wants you to help
him."

"Me! What's the matter with Jack?"

"He's goin' to the D.1 to-morrow."

Phil was examining the wrapping on his saddle horn with--the Dean
noted--quite unnecessary care.