“Ye’ll have to stop baiting that runt Morgan,” ordered McCarthy, “or thar’ll be plenty o’ grief and some jobs open, too! Ye’re drivin’ him wild with yer talk an’ I can see him gettin’ to th’ breaking point. He ain’t harmed any of you that you should rag him like that?” “No, he ain’t,” said Joe Myers, “but that’s the way them knife fighters do; they lay low until their chance comes, an’ then they tickle a man’s backbone with the blade when he’s least expectin’ it. This little rat we got will do that an’ the boys hate him fer it!” McCarthy was still without a solution. He tried to pacify Morgan, but Morgan was bitter, too. He said he was being persecuted, and McCarthy couldn’t deny it. What McCarthy could and did do, moreover--was to warn the runt against violence in no uncertain terms. “We’re a peaceable lot,” said McCarthy, “an’ the ol’ man, especially, is against trouble--says it brings bad repute on the outfit an’ sets towns against us. We gotta toe the straight and narrer here. Mebbe the boys are carryin’ their joke a bit too far against you--but never you mind. If you weren’t such a good driver----” “I understand,” said the runt sourly. Three days later Ashton, the owner, struck camp. McCarthy offered up a silent prayer. True, the corral was as empty as ever Ashton had seen it--not even a sick or lame animal in camp; still McCarthy trembled. The bad blood between Morgan, the knife carrier, and the rest of the men, was reaching fever pitch. Even the cook and his helper had started to discriminate against the runt. If there is one place where persecution actually hurts, it’s in the mess room of a freighting outfit. Ashton had come to praise, not to find fault, much to the surprise of McCarthy. “The Red Cliff people tell me we’re more than caught up,” said Ashton, “and that is good news to hear. Over on the western division we have landed a good dirt-hauling job that will keep every man and mule in the Mesa region on the job all fall, and further----” Here the boss’ face beamed with pride. “Monte Vista has just paid us a fine compliment, McCarthy. They’ve asked me to bring down five of our best hitches for a special freight-wagon race for their rodeo, next week--which is showing their faith in the Q B, and is a big ad for us, too. They’ve offered a prize of twenty-five dollars to the winning driver----” “Too bad,” said McCarthy, “that we’re all tied up here, and you say the western division is goin’ to tackle a dirt-haulin’ contract----” “Already started,” said the big boss crisply, “but that doesn’t cut any ice. You have the pick of the stock, McCarthy, in this camp--and the drivers, too--so you’ll pick five outfits----” “But the Red Cliff job----” began McCarthy.