Bill strolled to the stack with Whitey. The two men, now thoroughly
awake, were still sitting upright in the straw. In front of them stood
Sitting Bull. His lower jaw was sticking out farther than usual, and he
was watching the men and awaiting events.

[Illustration: IN FRONT OF THEM STOOD SITTING BULL]

"Hey! Call off yer dog, will ye?" requested one of the men.

"He ain't mine," Bill answered calmly, indicating Whitey. "He's his."

"Well, get him to call him off," said the man. "Every time we move he
makes a noise like sudden death."

Whitey summoned Bull, who came to him obediently enough, and the men
rose to their feet, and stretched themselves and brushed off some of the
straw that clung to their not over-neat attire. They were not as
bad-looking as they might have been, neither were they as good-looking.
One was tall and slim and wore a dark beard. The other was almost as
tall, but, being very fat, did not look his height. He was
clean-shaven, or would have been had it not been for about three days'
stubbly growth. Their clothes were well-worn, and they wore no collars,
but their boots were good.

"What you fellers doin' here?" demanded Bill. "Ain't the bunk house good
enough for you?"

"We got in late, an' ev'body was in bed," said the taller of the two.
"We're walkin' through for th' thrashin'."