After a man has ridden hard all day and stood his guard at night, a little thing like a rope under his bed is not likely to disturb his dreams--the way the pea did the soft-sleeping True Princess--but with this particular rope it was different. Hardy Atkins had stretched it there with malice aforethought; and when, later in the night, he saddled his snorting night horse and prepared to ride out to the herd, he tied the two ends into a loop and silently stepped away with the slack. Then he took a turn around the horn, put spurs to his horse, and went plunging out into the night. A sudden yank almost snapped Bowles in two in the middle; he woke up clutching, to find himself side-swiping the earth; then an agonizing series of bumps and jolts followed, and he fetched up against a juniper with a jar that rattled his teeth. There was a strain, a snap, and as the rope parted he heard a titter, and a horse went galloping on. It was a practical joke--Bowles realized that the moment he woke up--but the terror of that first grim nightmare wrenched his soul to the very depths. He came to, cursing and fighting, still bound by the loop of the lariat and half-buried in the wreck of the juniper. Then he jerked himself loose and sprang up, staring about in the darkness for some enemy that he could kill. The titter of the galloping horseman gave the answer, and he knew it was Hardy Atkins. Hardy had given him till nightfall to quit camp or look out for trouble. This was the trouble. Bowles spread out his bed as best he could and slept where he lay till dawn. Then he went to Henry Lee and said he would like his gun. His hands were bloody and torn from contact with the brush, and there was a fresh welt above one eye that gave him a sinister leer. There was no doubt about it--Bowles was mad--and after a cursory glance the boss saw he was out for blood. "Just a moment, Mr. Bowles," he said, advancing to the fire. "Boys," he continued, addressing the smirking hands who stood there, "I make it a rule on my round-ups that nobody carries a gun. That includes you, too, Mr. Bowles," he added meaningly. "Mosby, get me a gunny-sack." With the gunny-sack under one arm the wagon-boss went the rounds, and when he had finished his trip the sack was full of guns. "I'll just keep these till we get back to the ranch," he observed. "And," he added, "the next man that picks on Bowles will have to walk to town. Hardy, were you in on this?" "No, sir!" replied Atkins stoutly. "I don't know a thing about it!" "Well, be mighty careful what you do," charged Henry Lee severely. "Brig, throw that herd on the trail--we might as well hit for the ranch." CHAPTER XX THE DEATH OF HAPPY JACK When Bowles rode back to the Bat Wing Ranch he was a hard-looking citizen. His aunt, the hypothetical Mrs. Earl-Bowles, would scarcely have recognized him; Mrs. Lee started visibly at sight of his battered face; and Dixie smiled knowingly as she glanced at his half-closed eye.