horses were not to stray, and then slid to the ground, walking with that
peculiarly awkward gait that always marks one who has spent much of his
life in the saddle.

"Grub ready, Hop Loy?" demanded one lanky specimen, as he used his blue
neck kerchief to remove some of the dust and sweat from his brown face.

"It better be!" added another, significantly; while still another said,
quietly:

"My gal has been askin' me for a long, long time to get her a Chinaman's
pig-tail, an' I'm shore goin' t'get one now if I don't have my grub right
plenty, an' soon!"

"Now you're talkin'!" cried a fourth, with emphasis.

There was no need of saying anything further. The Celestial had stuck his
head out of the cook house to hear these ominous words of warning, and
now, with a howl of anguish, he drew it inside again, wrapping his queue
around his neck. Then followed a frantic rattling of pots and pans.

"You shore did get him goin', Tubby!" exclaimed a tall, lanky cowboy, to a
short and squatty member of the tribe.

"Well, I aimed to Skinny," was the calm reply. "I am some hungry."

The last of the cowboys to alight was a manly youth, who might have been
in the neighborhood of eighteen or nineteen years of age. He was tall and
slight, with a frank and pleasing countenance, and his blue eyes looked at
you fearlessly from under dark brows, setting off in contrast his