"Wal, I reckon this heah time I'll go down before you," drawled
King.

Neale laughed and looked curiously at his lineman. Back somewhere in
Nebraska this cowboy from Texas had attached himself to Neale. They
worked together; they had become friends. Larry Red King made no
bones of the fact that Texas had grown too hot for him. He had been
born with an itch to shoot. To Neale it seemed that King made too
much of a service Neale had rendered--the mere matter of a helping
hand. Still, there had been danger.

"Go down before me!" exclaimed Neale.

"I reckon," replied King.

"You will not," rejoined the other, bluntly. "I may not need you at
all. What's the sense of useless risk?"

"Wal, I'm goin'--else I throw up my job."

"Oh, hell!" burst out Neale as he strained hard on a knot. Again he
looked at his lineman, this time with something warmer than
curiosity in his glance.

Larry Red King was tall, slim, hard as iron, and yet undeniably
graceful in outline--a singularly handsome and picturesque cowboy
with flaming hair and smooth, red face and eyes of flashing blue.
From his belt swung a sheath holding a heavy gun.

"Wal, go ahaid," added Neale, mimicking his comrade. "An' I shore