"Take him, Dave!" cried Pocus Pete, who wanted the lad to get as much practical experience as possible. "I'll get him," was the instant call in response. "Look at him go!" murmured Mr. Bellmore, who half rose from a pile of blankets to watch the antics of the steer. "Yes, that boy of mine can ride!" said Mr. Carson, who was looking on. A tender look came into his eyes. No one looking at him would have suspected that, only a comparatively short time before, he had confessed to this same lad that there was no real relationship between them. That they were actually, strangers, save that there was a love between them that could only come of long association. "Yes. He surely can ride," murmured the ranch owner. "If he lives I hope he'll succeed me as operator here. And if I can put through your irrigation scheme it will make Bar U one of the best ranches in this part of the country." "Oh, we'll put it through all right," said the Chicago man. "Don't worry about that. We'll put it through." "If Molick doesn't kick up a row," observed Mr. Carson. "Yes, of course we've got to look out for him. But I think--" Mr. Bellmore never finished his sentence. "Look out, Dave!" he yelled, as if he could warn the lad who was riding toward the rushing steer. "Oh! Oh!" gasped Mr. Carson. The next instant they both saw the trailing rope on the steer's head tangle around the legs of Dave's pony. The plucky Crow made a brave effort to keep his feet. But a moment later he went down heavily in a cloud of dust with his rider, while the maddened steer, brought up short, reared and seemed to fall backward on pony and cowboy. CHAPTER XII THE FIGHT With one bound, it seemed, Mr. Carson leaped away from the side of his invalid guest, and was in the saddle of his favorite pony, that had been standing near the chuck wagon. "He's killed!" was the thought that came instantly into the mind of Mr. Bellmore. "No rider could suffer such a fall, and live!" Such an idea, too, it seemed, was in the thought of the ranch owner, for he was slightly pale underneath his coat of tan as he spurred his steed forward. A number of other cowboys had seen the happening, and those who could leave the work in which they were engaged, started for the scene of the accident. But there were some, holding down a refractory steer, or engaged in putting on the hot branding irons, who only looked over, shrugged their shoulders, and kept on with their tasks. For that, too, was the law of the range. If a man had a fall, he was either killed or he was not killed. If he was killed there was no use dropping important work to go to his aid. If he was not killed he must either help himself, or take such help as could be sent to him at the time. Cruel, perhaps you will say, but it was eminently practical, and, after all, that is life. If Dave was really dead no power the cowboys could exert would save him. The accident had happened--it was over with--and that was all there was to it.