“Work!” sniffed Curly, disdainfully. “What do you take me for? Do you think I’d chase cows, and hop-skip-and-jump around after crazy sheep like that pink and yellow guy at the store says these Reubs do? Forget it.” “Oh, you’ll like it when you get used to it,” said Ranse. “Yes, I’ll send you up one more drink by Pedro. I think you’ll make a first-class cowpuncher before I get through with you.” “Me?” said Curly. “I pity the cows you set me to chaperon. They can go chase themselves. Don’t forget my nightcap, please, boss.” Ranse paid a visit to the store before going to the house. Sam Rivell was taking off his tan shoes regretting and preparing for bed. “Any of the boys from the San Gabriel camp riding in early in the morning?” asked Ranse. “Long Collins,” said Sam briefly. “For the mail.” “Tell him,” said Ranse, “to take that tramp out to camp with him and keep him till I get there.” Curly was sitting on his blankets in the San Gabriel camp cursing talentedly when Ranse Truesdell rode up and dismounted on the next afternoon. The cowpunchers were ignoring the stray. He was grimy with dust and black dirt. His clothes were making their last stand in favour of the conventions. Ranse went up to Buck Rabb, the camp boss, and spoke briefly. “He’s a plumb buzzard,” said Buck. “He won’t work, and he’s the low-downest passel of inhumanity I ever see. I didn’t know what you wanted done with him, Ranse, so I just let him set. That seems to suit him. He’s been condemned to death by the boys a dozen times, but I told ’em maybe you was savin’ him for the torture.” Ranse took off his coat. “I’ve got a hard job before me, Buck, I reckon, but it has to be done. I’ve got to make a man out of that thing. That’s what I’ve come to camp for.” He went up to Curly. “Brother,” he said, “don’t you think if you had a bath it would allow you to take a seat in the company of your fellow-man with less injustice to the atmosphere.” “Run away, farmer,” said Curly, sardonically. “Willie will send for nursey when he feels like having his tub.” The _charco_, or water hole, was twelve yards away. Ranse took one of Curly’s ankles and dragged him like a sack of potatoes to the brink. Then with the strength and sleight of a hammer-throw he hurled the offending member of society far into the lake. Curly crawled out and up the bank spluttering like a porpoise. Ranse met him with a piece of soap and a coarse towel in his hands. “Go to the other end of the lake and use this,” he said. “Buck will give you some dry clothes at the wagon.” The tramp obeyed without protest. By the time supper was ready he had returned to camp. He was hardly to be recognised in his new shirt and brown duck clothes. Ranse observed him out of the corner of his eye. “Lordy, I hope he ain’t a coward,” he was saying to himself. “I hope he won’t turn out to be a coward.” His doubts were soon allayed. Curly walked straight to where he stood. His light-blue eyes were blazing.