"No!" cried Brigham, still struggling with his emotions. "Is it as easy as that? But say," he whispered, as the magnitude of the story came over him, "jest wait till I get this off on the cowboys--I'll have me a reputation like old Tom Pepper, or Windy Bill up on the J.F.! You don't want to pull it yoreself, do you? Well, jest give me the details, then, and I'll depend on you to make my hand good when they come back for the explanation. But, by grab, if it's anythin' like what you say, I'm shore goin' to save my money and drag it fer old New York!" "Yes, indeed," murmured Bowles, cuddling down into his bed; "I'm sure you'd enjoy it." He fell to breathing deeply immediately, feigning a dreamless slumber, and when Brigham asked his next question Bowles was lost to the world. The cowboy's night was all too short for him, ending as it did at four-thirty in the morning, and not even a consideration for Brigham's future career could fight off the demands of sleep. Yet hardly had he closed his eyes--or so it seemed--when Gloomy Gus flashed his lantern in his face and then turned to the ambitious Brigham. "Git up, Brig!" he rasped. "It's almost day! Wranglers!" "Oh, my Lord!" moaned Brigham, turning to hide his face, but the round-up cook was inexorable and at last he had his way. Then as the wranglers clumped away to saddle their night-horses the dishpan clanged out its brazen summons and one by one the cowboys stirred and rose. Last of all rose Bat Wing Bowles, for his head was heavy with sleep; but a pint of the cook's hot coffee brought him back to life again, and he was ready for another day. Shrill yells rose from the far corner of the horse pasture; there was a rumble of feet, a din of hoofbeats growing nearer, and then with a noise like thunder the remuda poured into the corral. A scamper of ponies and the high-pitched curses of the riders told where the outlaws were being turned back from a break; and then the bars went up and the wranglers ran shivering to the fire. "Pore old Brig!" observed Bar Seven with exaggerated concern. "He was up all night!" "What's the matter?" inquired another. "Feet hurt 'im?" "No," said Bar Seven sadly; "it was his haid!" Brigham looked up from his cup of coffee and said nothing. Then, seeing many furtive eyes upon him, he laughed shortly, and filled his cup again. "Yore _eyes_ look kinder bad, Seven," he said. "Must've kinder strained 'em last night." "Nope," answered Bar Seven, upon whom the allusion was not lost; and with this delicate passage at arms the subject of big stories was dropped. Henry Lee came down, there was a call for horses, and in the turmoil of roping and mounting the matter was forgotten. Brigham had scored a victory and he was satisfied, while the stray men were biding their time. So the marvels of the Hippodrome were held in reserve, and the round-up supplied the excitement.