"_Ach Gott_! Alvays you shoot, like Dave! Shoot, shoot, shoot! Vy in _Himmel_ should you alvays grab dot gun? Brains are in your head, and _besser_ as lead in dot Colt. Brains first, and if dey don’t do it, den der gun. But alvays der gun should be last. _Verstanden_?" Murray did not reply and his companion, exchanging a few terse sentences with him, waved him towards the ranch house while he followed the line towards the Little Jill. Buck was washing for supper when Murray arrived and kept right on with his ablutions as the puncher told his tale. Murray quite expected to see some signs of its effect on the owner, but he met with surprise and looked it. Buck Peters almost made an ally when he turned, after Murray’s last word. "Murray, that’s good work. Prepare for _hard_ work. Send Ned here right away," he said, quietly, no trace of emotion in his voice. Murray went out, thinking hard. When a man could take such a blow as that one had been taken, then he was clean grit all through. To smile as Buck had done—"By G—d, he ’s a man!" swore the puncher. "I can’t _help_ liking him; wish I did n’t have to help throw him. And I wish he did n’t trust me like he does—ah, h—l!" he growled, savagely. "He ’s a range thief, after all!" When Monroe entered the ranch house he found his employer looking out of the window in the direction of the Hog Back, but he turned at Ned’s entry. "Got work ahead, Ned. Murray found some Cyclone cows dead and wobbly on th’ Hog Back. Bad case of itch. He killed th’ wobblers but says th’ tracks show that about a dozen was in th’ herd. That means eight of ’em are on our range among the cattle. Tell th’ boys we start th’ round-up at daylight. If we can, we ’ll make this do for the spring round-up, too; if not, then th’ calves ’ll have to wait till we can go for ’em. Th’ north range won’t have no itch cows on it yet, so take th’ south first. As fast as we can cut out th’ cattle that are free from it, we ’ll throw ’em over on th’ north range. Begin in th’ Hog Back country an’ clean up. Drive everything out of it." "It’s d—d funny Cyclone cows swum th’ Jack," commented Monroe, a black look on his face. "By G—d, let _me_ ketch anybody at that game!" "That’s th’ whole thing, Ned," and Buck smiled: "To ketch ’em. I know a man who ’d clean up th’ mystery if he was here, an’ was told he did n’t have nothin’ else to do." He smiled again quietly and turned to his supper. "But he ain’t here, so what’s th’ use." "Mebby I—" suggested Ned, nervously. "No, yo ’re goin’ to help me most by curing th’ evil on th’ table; never mind th’ dealer, nor th’ game. We ’ve got as many cards as we ’re goin’ to get—use ’em, Ned. Help me lick th’ itch first—th’ hows an’ whys can wait." "Yo ’re right, Peters; an’ we _will_ lick it! But it makes me fightin’ mad, a thing like this. I ’ll get everything all ready to-night an’ th’ round-up starts with th’ comin’ of th’ sun to-morrow. Good-night."