"The Frying Pan thinks I'm young and green. I suppose they also think I'm a fool, and can't take the hints that have dropped around here. But it's like this, Jelly: We need this bunch of horses. I want that bill of sale signed to-night, and I want you to see me pay Kid the money. Butch doesn't want to see me get those two blacks, and the whole bunch may be slightly damp." He grinned, and Gelle laughed softly. "But if we lose any horses on that account, Kid will have to settle with the Meadowlark; don't think he won't! "And when we've got them safe home," he added, after a reflective pause, "I'll have Lark let the boys off for a few days. They can go spend their good money in Smoky Ford while you and I take a little scouting trip around. How does that strike you, Jelly?" "Fine and dandy; betcher life!" "So come on, now, while all the boys are in sight and it's still daylight, and we'll dig up the gold and get the paper signed that will make these _our_ horses. One hundred and six head of them, at least. Nothing like being young and innocent, is there, Jelly?" "No, there ain't," Gelle agreed soberly. "I never did have much use fer the Fryin' Pan, and that's the truth. Now Butch is with 'em, they don't stack up near so good. Come awn, let's git that gold money paid over to Kid before they steal it. That's how _I_ trust this bunch!" CHAPTER ELEVEN BUD TAKES A TRAIL OF HIS OWN Have you ever watched a herd of horses come streaming down a hill at the end of a hard day's travel? There's a thrill in it such as comes when soldiers are marching by. First a drifting haze which is the dust kicked up by the traveling herd; then the faint, muffled sound of hoof beats; the heads of the point riders seen dimly through the cloud, and after them the upflung heads of the leaders. As the freshly branded horses sighted the delectable green of the Basin, smelled the river rushing out of the encircling wall of rugged hills, they came streaming down through the pass in sudden forgetfulness of the weary miles behind them. At the foot of the hill riders spurred out from the veil of dust, swinging closed loops and shouting, forcing the eager band close to the bluff and away from the alluring green of the meadows. Tired muscles tensed again. Heads went up, dusty nostrils belled and quivered with the mingled scents of the valley. The leg-weary colts, dusty, lagging behind and then making sudden, shrill uproar when they missed their mothers, were sought with frantic whinnyings by the mares. Once found, they were torn from eager nuzzlings by the light thwacks of rope ends and the insistent, "_Hi! Hi-yee!_" from the hoarse throats of the tired riders; the cry that all day long without ceasing had dogged the laggards on the trail.