While Red had been trudging southward under his saddle and other possessions a scene was being enacted on a remote part of the H2 range which showed how completely a cowboy leased his very life to the man who paid him his monthly wage, one which serves to illustrate in a way how a ranchman was almost a feudal lord. There are songs of men who gave up their lives to save their fellows, one life for many, and they are well sung; but what of him who risks his life to save one small, insignificantly small portion of his employer's possessions, risks it without hesitation or fear, as a part of his daily work? What of the man who, not content with taking his share of danger in blizzard, fire, and stampede, on drive, roundup, and range-riding, leaps fearlessly at the risk of his life to save a paltry head or two of cattle to his ranch's tally sheet? Such men were the rule, and such a one was Curley, who, with all his faults, was a man as a man should be. Following out his orders he rode his part of the range with alertness, and decided to explore the more remote southwestern angle of the ranch. Doc had left him an hour before to search the range nearer Eagle and would not be back again until time to return to the ranch house for the night. This was against Meeker's orders, for they had been told to keep together for their own protection, but they had agreed that there was little risk and that it would be better to separate and cover more ground. The day was bright and, with the exception of the heat, all he could desire. His spirits bubbled over in snatches of song as he cantered hither and yon, but all the time moving in the general direction of the little-ridden territory. On all sides stretched the same monotonous view, sage brush, mesquite, cactus, scattered tufts of grass, and the brown plain, endless, flat, wearying. The surroundings did not depress him, but only gradually slowed the exultant surge of his blood and, as he hummed at random, an old favorite came to him out of the past, and he sung it joyously: My taste is that of an aristocrat, My purse that of a pauper: I scorn the gold her parents hold-- But shore I love their daughter. Hey de diddle de, hey de dee, But shore I love their daughter. When silvery nights my courting light An' souls of flowers wander, Then who's to blame if I loved th' game An' did not pause to ponder? Hey de diddle de, hey de dee, An' did not pause to ponder. Her eyes are blue, an' oh, so true-- Th' words were said ere thought, Lad. Her father swore we'd meet no more-- But I am not distraught, Lad. Hey de diddle de, hey de de-- But I am not distraught, Lad.