Pink shook his head thoughtfully and sighed. Pink loved good mounts, and the outlook did not please him. The round-up had camped, for the last time, on the river within easy riding distance of Camas. The next day's drive would bring them to the home ranch, where Eagle Creek was fuming over the lateness of the season, the condition of the range, and the June rains, which had thus far failed even to moisten decently the grass-roots. “Let's ride over to Camas; all the other fellows have gone,” Pink proposed listlessly, drawing in his line. Rowdy as listlessly consented. Camas as a town was neither interesting nor important; but when one has spent three long weeks communing with nature in her sulkiest and most unamiable mood, even a town without a railroad to its name may serve to relieve the monotony of living. The sun was piling gorgeous masses of purple and crimson clouds high about him, cuddling his fat cheeks against their soft folds till, a Midas, he turned them to gold at the touch. Those farther away gloomed jealously at the favoritism of their lord, and huddled closer together--the purple for rage, perhaps; and the crimson for shame! Pink's face was tinged daintily with the glow, and even Rowdy's lean, brown features were for the moment glorified. They rode knee to knee silently, thinking each his own thoughts the while they watched the sunset with eyes grown familiar with its barbaric splendor, but never indifferent. Soon the west held none but the deeper tints, and the shadows climbed, with the stealthy tread of trailing Indians, from the valley, chasing the after-glow to the very hilltops, where it stood a moment at bay and then surrendered meekly to the dusk. A meadow-lark near-by cut the silence into haunting ripples of melody, stopped affrighted at their coming, and flew off into the dull glow of the west; his little body showed black against a crimson cloud. Out across the river a lone coyote yapped sharply, then trailed off into the weird plaint of his kind. “Brother-in-law's in town to-day; Bob Nevin saw him,” Pink remarked, when the coyote ceased wailing and held his peace. “Who?” Rowdy only half-heard. “Bob Nevin,” repeated Pink naively. “Don't get funny. Who did Bob see?” “Brother-in-law. Yours, not mine. Jessie's tin god. If he's there yet, I bid for an invite to the 'swatfest.' Or maybe”--a horrible possibility forced itself upon Pink--“maybe you'll kill the fattest maverick and fall on his neck--” “The maverick's?” Rowdy's brows were rather pinched together, but his tone told nothing. “Naw; Harry Conroy's a fellow's liable to do most any fool thing when he's got schoolma'amitis.” “That so?” Pink snorted. The possibility had grown to black certainty in his mind. He became suddenly furious. “Lord! I hope some kind friend'll lead me out an' knock me in the head, if ever I get locoed over any darned girl!” “Same here,” agreed Rowdy, unmoved.