"But for one thing," he told Frank, when on another day they were talking over numerous plans, "we'll never think of rebuilding that barn, not having the same apprehension of forage shortage that haunted Uncle George. Besides, Lige assures me the winters are getting milder every season up here in the shadow of the Rockies, and that there will always be plenty of grass for our small herd." The three boys were by degrees preparing to start on the long cherished trip to the mountains. Gold Fork and all its traditions of former glories before the diggings panned out, lured them more and more every day. Lanky had persisted in his endeavor to prove himself of real cowboy caliber. He could ride any bronco that came his way, sticking on as he called it "like a burr in a darky's wool." But one thing Frank noticed that roused his curiosity a bit. Somehow, the often expressed intention on Lanky's part to own and proudly wear as natty a pair of fringed and decorated "chaps" as any puncher could boast, seemed to have died out completely. "What's happened to make you change your mind about those gaudy chaps, Lanky?" Frank asked one day, as their preparations for their trip neared completeness. Lanky grinned good-naturedly. "Shucks! I've only been looking around and observing some things that I didn't know before, Frank." "As what, for instance?" demanded the other smilingly. "First off the bat, it isn't the chaps that make the genuine puncher. I've noticed that generally the greenhorn has the niftiest outfit you ever laid eyes on and struts around when decked out like he owned the whole world." "But, Lanky, every puncher does have chaps, and often more than one pair." "Sure does, Frank. But--and here's where my argus eyes came in good--the finest rig he owns he keeps for extra occasions, like going to a dance or when taking cattle to the station for shipment; because, don't you see, on those special events he's apt to run across some of the girls." Frank laughed at that, and wagged his head in appreciation. "Your sagacity does you credit, Lanky." "Look at our bunch at work on the range, rounding up strays, branding the youngsters, or doing any sort of work like that. Why, some of 'em even wear plain faded jean overalls, and the only things that would tell you they were punchers are their cowboy hats and the ropes they always carry." "I can see you're making the grade, all right, old chum," chucked Frank. "And I give you a heap of credit for taking note of such happenings. Not much gets past your eyes--while they're open, I mean, Lanky." As it happened, when they had almost forgotten all about the hovering peril that had given them so much concern a month and more previously, it was fated to once more awaken into life to annoy them.