"I want to warn you, Mr. Bowles," he called, as Bowles came, full-rigged, from the bunk-house. "I want to give you warnin'--thet hawse is dangerous!" "All right, Mr. Mosby," answered Bowles absently, as he started for the round corral. "He done killed a man!" croaked Gloomy Gus. "A right good cow-puncher, too--I knowed him well. Jim Dunbar--the top rider of the outfit. Don't say I never warned you, now--keep off that hawse!" "All right, Mr. Mosby," responded Bowles, but he never missed a stride. The time had come to show himself a man, and, like an athlete who goes forth to win, his thoughts were on the battle. "You want to set him limber," reiterated Brigham in his ear. "Ride 'im like a drunk man, and whip 'im at every jump--it gives you somethin' to do. Grab 'im with yore spurs every time he lights; and look out he don't bite yore legs. Here, take my quirt--it's heavier--and if he starts to go over backwards, hit 'im hard between the ears. You kin ride 'im, pardner, I know it! Jest keep cool and don't get stiff!" "All right, Brig," muttered Bowles; "all right!" But his eyes were on the corral. A cloud of dust rose on the still morning air like smoke from some red-burning fire, and through the poles of the fence he could see horses running like mad, and men with trailing ropes. Then, as the stampede rose to a thunder of feet, he heard a shrill yell of triumph, and scrambling men jerked the bars from the gate. The current of galloping slackened, it paused, and the leaders shot out the gap with a sea of high-flung heads behind. When the dust of their outrush had settled, there was only one horse left inside--the horse that killed Dunbar--and he lay grunting in the dirt. "Fetch me that hackamore!" yelled Hardy Atkins from where he knelt on the brute's straining neck. "Now bring me that well-rope--we'll tie up his dad-burned leg!"