“Jim,” said the cow hunter at last, “that Austin gang don’t never mean fer no Del Sol herd never to leave this country. Why?” “For the same reason they want that Burleson Lockhart scrip. For the same reason they killed Burleson Lockhart. Dalhart, them carpetbaggers have got a big game on. All the state of Texas to steal—and they’re going to steal it! “And McMasters got away again! I thought he was our friend. We’re riding his horses and drinking his coffee now. She don’t know that. Dalhart, ef ever a girl needed a man to take care of her, yon’s one that does. One man’s better’n twenty, with a woman. She needs just one—and she ain’t got one. “Well, I got to go back. Come Sanchez,” he concluded. “You’ll have to stay here and look out for the camp, Dalhart. They might come back. Shoot first!” Left in charge, Mr. Dalhart employed his own methods. First he inquired of the cook for hot water, got a tin pan of water on the base of the wagon tongue and found a bit of yellow soap. Cleansing his dusty face and hands the best he could, he employed the very catholic beneficences of a split meal sack which the cook also used as a towel. Then he prowled among the bed rolls. After certain rummagings, he presently emerged clad in a brand-new pair of the light-colored trousers, with heavy stripes of black, which then made Texan apotheosis of male splendor. He even added a brilliant tie, which in good sooth represented the heart hunger of Cinquo Centavos, and almost his last dime. Dalhart was a ruthless man. What he found to his notion in the several war bags he took, trusting to be able to explain. Oiled and curled as best might be in a cow camp, with a final sweep into better order of his strong sunburned beard, Mr. Dalhart at last walked straight across to Taisie’s bivouac, whither she had withdrawn. Without so much as by your leave, he ordered Taisie’s women to go on away. “I’m top rod here just now, Miss Lockhart,” said he, “and I want to talk with you a little while. This is my first chance.” The girl looked at him. She had been in tears. Her nerves were going. She was no longer the daring Taisie Lockhart, “_dulce ridentem . . . dulce loquentem,_” like the Lalage of Horace of old, always ready to chat and ready to laugh. “Drive them away!” Her glance was toward the distant row of solemn black birds, advancing, hopping staring. Dalhart dropped her tent flap into a screen. He found a bundle and seated himself, not invited. “Miss Lockhart,” said he directly, “one way, I’m only one of your hands. In Uvalde, you could find out who I am.” “I suppose so. You’re on point? That means my foreman thinks you know cows?” “Yes. Now, Mr. Nabours and I been talking. We think we’ve been jumped by the Sim Rudabaugh bunch, of Austin. They don’t ever aim to let this herd git north, Miss Lockhart. They aim to break it up and git it headed west.