The young man reached the corral after a ride of twelve or thirteen
miles, most of the distance through a country of difficult sand.
He galloped up to the rude enclosure, surrounded by a cloud of dust
through which his keen gray eyes discovered Mizzoo on the eve of
leaving camp. Mizzoo was one of the men whose duty it was to ride
the line all night--the line that the young man had guarded all
day--to keep Walker's cattle from drifting.

"Come on, Mizz," called the young man, as the other swung upon his
broncho, "I'm going back with you."

The lean, leather-skinned, sandy-mustached cattleman uttered words
not meet for print, but expressive of hearty pleasure. "Ain't you
had enough of it, Bill?" he added. "I'd think you'd want to lay up
for tomorrow's work."

"Oh, I ain't sleepy," the young man declared, as they rode away side
by side. "I couldn't close an eye tonight--and I want to talk."

The cattleman chuckled enjoyingly. It was lonely and monotonous
work, riding back and forth through the darkness, keeping a sharp
lookout for wolves or Indians, driving straggling cattle back to
the herd, in brief, doing the picket duty of the plains.

Mizzoo was so called from his habit of attributing his most emphatic
aphorisms to "his aunt, Miss Sue of Missouri"--a lady held by his
companions to be a purely fictitious character, a convenient "Mrs.
Harris" to give weight to sayings worn smooth from centuries of use.

Of all the boys of the ranch, Mizzoo found Wilfred Compton most