“I'll bet she don't run in either bunch,” began Weary. “I'll bet she's a skinny old maid with a peaked nose and glasses, that'll round us up every Sunday and read tracts at our heads, and come down on us with both feet about tobacco hearts and whisky livers, and the evils and devils wrapped up in a cigarette paper. I seen a woman doctor, once--she was stopping at the T Down when I was line-riding for them--and say, she was a holy fright! She had us fellows going South before a week. I stampeded clean off the range, soon as my month was up.” “Say,” interrupted Cal, “don't yuh remember that picture the Old Man got last fall, of his sister? She was the image of the Old Man--and mighty near as old.” Chip, thinking of the morrow's drive, groaned in real anguish of spirit. “You won't dast t' roll a cigarette comin' home, Chip,” predicted Happy Jack, mournfully. “Yuh want t' smoke double goin' in.” “I don't THINK I'll smoke double going in,” returned Chip, dryly. “If the old girl don't like my style, why the walking isn't all taken up.” “Say, Chip,” suggested Jack Bates, “you size her up at the depot, and, if she don't look promising, just slack the lines on Antelope Hill. The creams 'll do the rest. If they don't, we'll finish the job here.” Shorty tactfully pushed back his chair and rose. “You fellows don't want to git too gay,” he warned. “The Old Man's just beginning to forget about the calf-shed deal.” Then he went out and shut the door after him. The boys liked Shorty; he believed in the old adage about wisdom being bliss at certain times, and the boys were all the better for his living up to his belief. He knew the Happy Family would stop inside the limit--at least, they always had, so far. “What's the game?” demanded Cal, when the door closed behind their indulgent foreman. “Why, it's this. (Pass the syrup, Happy.) T'morrow's Sunday, so we'll have time t' burn. We'll dig up all the guns we can find, and catch up the orneriest cayuses in our strings, and have a real, old lynching bee--sabe?” “Who yuh goin' t' hang?” asked Slim, apprehensively. “Yuh needn't think I'LL stand for it.” “Aw, don't get nervous. There ain't power enough on the ranch t' pull yuh clear of the ground. We ain't going to build no derrick,” said Jack, witheringly. “We'll have a dummy rigged up in the bunk house. When Chip and the doctor heave in sight on top of the grade, we'll break loose down here with our bronks and our guns, and smoke up the ranch in style. We'll drag out Mr. Strawman, and lynch him to the big gate before they get along. We'll be 'riddling him with bullets' when they arrive--and by that time she'll be so rattled she won't know whether it's a man or a mule we've got strung up.” “You'll have to cut down your victim before I get there,” grinned Chip. “I never could get the creams through the gate, with a man hung to the frame; they'd spill us into the washout by the old shed, sure as fate.”