credentials in his eyes, in his perfect saddle-poise, in the
tan on his face to his eyebrows, and the womanish softness of
his gloved hands, which had all the sensitive flexibility of
a musician.

His main hope was that the outfit was working short-handed;
and when he rode near enough to distinguish the herd and the
riders, he grinned his satisfaction.

"Good cow-country, by the look of that bunch of cattle," He
observed to himself. "And eight men is a small crew to work
a herd that size. I guess I'll tie onto this outfit. Stopper,
you'll maybe get a chance to turn a cow this afternoon."

Just how soon the chance would come, Bud had not realized. He
had no more than come within shouting distance of the herd
when a big, rollicky steer broke from the milling cattle and
headed straight out past him, running like a deer. Stopper,
famed and named for his prowess with just such cattle,
wheeled in his tracks and lengthened his stride to a run.

"Tie 'im down!" someone yelled behind Bud. And "Catch 'im and
tie 'im down!" shouted another.

For answer Bud waved his hand, and reached in his pocket for
his knife. Stopper was artfully circling the steer, forcing
it back toward the herd, and in another hundred yards or so
Bud must throw his loop He sliced off a saddle-string and
took it between his teeth, jerked his rope loose, flipped
open the loop as Stopper raced up alongside, dropped the