He centered his energy upon the two wolves in the foreground, grimly
determined that Slim should pray for a Gatling gun when he saw them.

The third day, when he was touching up the shoulders of one of the
combatants, a puff of wind blew open the door which led to the parlor.
He did not notice it and kept steadily at work, painting his "brand"
into a corner. Beneath the stump and its splinter he lettered his
name--a thing he had never done before.

"Well--I'll be--doggoned!"

Chip jumped half out of his chair, giving his lame ankle a jolt which
made him grind his teeth.

"Darn it, Chip, did YOU do that?"

"It kind of looks that way, don't it?" Chip was plainly disconcerted,
and his ankle hurt.

"H--m-m." The Old Man eyed it sharply a minute. "It's a wonder you
wouldn't paint in a howl or two, while you're about it. I suppose
that's a mate to--doggone you, Chip, why didn't yuh tell us you painted
that other one?"

"I didn't," said Chip, getting red and uncomfortable, "except the cow
and--"

"Yes, except the part that makes the picture worth the paint it's done
with!" snorted the Old Man. "I must say I never thought that uh Dell!"