"I call that a bad job well done," Pink remarked, after a long silence, as
he gave over trying to catch a fish in the muddy Milk River.

"What?" Rowdy, still prone to day-dreams of matters domestic, came back
reluctantly to reality, and inspected his bait.

"Oh, come alive! I mean the horse round-up. How we're going to keep that
bunch uh skeletons under us all summer is a guessing contest for fair.
Wooden Shoes has got t' give me about forty, instead of a dozen, if he wants
me t' hit 'er up on circle the way I'm used to. I bet their back-bones'll
wear clean up through our saddles."

"Oh, I guess not," said Rowdy calmly. "They ain't so thin--and they'll pick
up flesh. There's some mighty good ones in the bunch, too. I hope Wooden
Shoes don't forget to give me the first pick. There's one I got my eye
on--that blue roan. Anyway, I guess you can wiggle along with less than
forty."

Pink shook his head thoughtfully and sighed. Pink loved good mounts, and the
outlook did not please him. The round-up had camped, for the last time, on
the river within easy riding distance of Camas. The next day's drive would
bring them to the home ranch, where Eagle Creek was fuming over the
lateness of the season, the condition of the range, and the June rains,
which had thus far failed even to moisten decently the grass-roots.

"Let's ride over to Camas; all the other fellows have gone," Pink proposed
listlessly, drawing in his line.

Rowdy as listlessly consented. Camas as a town was neither interesting nor
important; but when one has spent three long weeks communing with nature in