was an echo of many shots, the sharp crack of the forty-fives mingling
with the thunder of hoofs, the yells, and the clatter of stirrup leathers.

"The boys coming back, Pete?" asked an elderly man, who came to the door
of the main living room of the principal ranch house.

"Yes, Mr. Carson, they're comin' back, an' it don't need a movin' picture
operator an' telegraphic despatch t' tell it, either."

"No, Pete. They seem to be in good spirits, too."

"Yes, they generally are when they get back from round-up. I want to hear
how they made out, though, an' what th' prospects are."

"So do I, Pete," and there was an anxious note in the voice of Mr.
Randolph Carson, owner of the Bar U ranch. Matters had not been going well
with him, of late.

With final yells, and an increase in the quantity of dust tossed up as the
cowboys pulled their horses back on their haunches, the range-riding
outfit of the ranch came to rest, not far away from the stable. The
horses, with heaving sides and distended nostrils that showed a deep red,
hung their heads from weariness. They had been ridden hard, but not
unmercifully, and they would soon recover. The cowboys themselves tipped
back their big hats from their foreheads, which showed curiously white in
contrast to their bronzed faces, and beat the dust from their trousers. A
few of them wore sheepskin chaps.

One after another the punchers slung their legs across the saddle horns,
tossed the reins over the heads of their steeds, as an intimation that the