"Oh, Bill? He lives up here on the Black Mesa--anywhere between here and the New Mexico line--and he sure is one of the grandest liars that ever breathed, too. I remember one time----" Bowles settled himself inside the doorway and drank in the magical tale. It was as if the Old West rose up before him, blotting out the barbed-wire fences and the lonely homes of the nesters and bringing back the age of romance that he sought. He questioned her eagerly, still watching her with his boyish, admiring eyes, and Dixie plunged into another. The sun, which was getting low, swung lower and a door slammed up at the big house. Then a reproachful voice came floating down, and Dixie jumped up from her seat. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "There's Maw--seems like I never get any peace! But, anyway, this old bear with the trap on his foot picked up Bill's gun and threw the chamber open, then he looked up into the tree where Bill was hanging and crooked his finger--like that! And Bill Jump said he knowed it jest as if that ol' b'ar spoke--he was signaling him to throw him down a cartridge, so he could put Bill out of his misery! Or that was what Bill said. But, say, I've got to be running--come up to the house to-night and let me tell you the rest of it! Oh, pshaw, we know what your motives are! Come along anyhow! And bring Brig with you! All right--good-by!" She gave him a dizzy smile over her shoulder as she fled, and Bowles blinked his eyes to find the world so fair. CHAPTER XVI THE STRAW-BOSS It is the philosophy of the poseurs in pessimism that for every happy moment we have in life we pay at a later date a greater price. Of course, any one who ever took a kid to the circus knows better, but there are times when the doctrine seems to hold. When Bowles returned to the round-up, the news of his perfidy had preceded him--he had taken advantage of his position and spent the evening at the big house! Thereupon the hotheads lowered upon him malignantly, and Hardy Atkins hunted up his high-life bottle. The accepted function of carbon bisulphide in the great Southwest is to kill off prairie-dogs. A tablespoonful poured on a cow-chip and rolled down a dog hole will asphyxiate the entire family. The same amount poured on a man's horse will make the man think he has been shot with a pack-saddle, and that was what happened to Bowles. When he became too wary for the bottle, they resorted to other means, and finally he detected the bronco-twister with a loaded syringe in his hand. "Now, that will do, Mr. Atkins," he observed with some asperity. "It's all right for you boys to haze me a little, but my horses are getting spoiled and I'll have to ask you to stop." "Oho!" shouted Bar Seven and the stray men, who had sweethearts in other parts and dearly loved excitement. "He caught you at it, Hardy! Now what you goin' to do?"