"I'd like t' know where the devil yuh come from," a voice remarked
plaintively in a soft treble.

Rowdy opened his eyes with a snap. "Pink! by all that's good and bad! Get up
off my diaphragm, you little fiend."

Pink absent-mindedly kneaded Rowdy's stomach with his knuckles, and
immediately found himself in a far corner. He came back, dimpling
mischievously. He looked much more an angel than a fiend, for all his Angora
chaps and flame-colored scarf.

"Your bed and war-bag's on my bunk; you're on Smoky's; and Dixie's makin'
himself to home in the corral. By all them signs and tokens, I give a
reckless guess you're here t' stay a while. That right?" He prodded again at
Rowdy's ribs.

"It sure is, Pink. And if I'd known you was holding out here, I'd 'a' come
sooner, maybe. You sure look good to me, you darned little cuss!" Rowdy sat
up and took a lightning inventory of the four or five other fellows lounging
about. He must have slept pretty sound, he thought, not to hear them come
in.

Pink read the look, and bethought him of the necessary introductions. "This
is my side-kicker over the line that--you've heard about till you're plumb
weary, boys," he announced musically. "His name is Rowdy
Vaughan--bronco-peeler, crap fiend, and all-round bad man. He ain't a safe
companion, and yuh want t' sleep with your six-guns cuddled under your right
ear, and never, on no account, show him your backs. He's a real wolf, he is,
and the only reason I live t' tell the tale is because he respects