“It was about the middle of the mornin’ when my hoss fell off with me like that, and an hour by sun I was still ridin’ all the time looking for the end of the herd and thinkin’ it shorely would come some time. I happened to look to the side, and what do you think I seen, Lanky? What do you think I seen?” “Help coming, I suppose,” said Lanky. “No sech luck,” said Joe; “no sech luck. It was the bushes we broke and the rocks we turned over when me and that hoss rolled down the hill. “Well, I rides another half hour, I guess, and I begins to feel the hoss quiver and shake under me, and I knowed the jig was about up. When a hoss does that way, Lanky, he’s about ready to drop dead, and I knowed that might happen any time. “Purty soon I sees an openin’, and jest as that pony jumped off the rump of the last buffalo, damn me if he didn’t drop in his tracks, dead as a hammer. I knowed that was goin’ to happen when I felt him quiver. “Well, I climbed out on the hill afoot, forgittin’ to git my saddle; and damn lucky it was I forgot, too; for as soon as I got to the top of the hill and set down on a rock to rest, I looked back, and there was the main herd comin’ into sight, roarin’ and bellowin’ like a cyclone. “I had to walk back to my outfit; and several days later, I rode back to the pass, but all I found of that hoss and saddle was a little greasy spot on the ground.” “That was a narrow escape,” said Lanky. “I suspect you have had as many close calls as anybody.” “Well, I couldn’t say about that,” said Joe. “But I know that if that hoss had give out ten minutes sooner, Joe Martin wouldn’t be settin’ here talkin’ to you tonight.” “Yeah,” said Hank. “Joe always was a lucky cuss. If he was to fall in a sewer, he’d come out with a lily in each hand. Now, me, I was born too late. Land all took up, buffalo all gone; no more trail drivin’ up north. Still, what with reptiles and beasts and Mexico steers and buckin’ hosses, and the like, I’ve had my share of close calls. “Funny how some little thing you don’t expect jest as like as not comes along and takes you off.” “Nothin’ ain’t got you yet, Hank,” said Red. “You’re here, ain’t you? What you kickin’ about?” “I was jest thinkin’ how near I come to bein’ kilt once. And if it hadn’t of been for Zac Weber, I would of been. “That lad could handle a six-gun, I can tell you. I’ve seen him knock down six flyin’ quail with his old Colt forty-five, ridin’ at a high run. He could turn six pigeons loose at one time and knock ’em every one down before they could git away. When he went duck huntin’ he never packed anything but his old six-shooter. Some of the boys had shot-guns, but Zac said his conscience never would git over it if he turned one of them murderous implements loose on a pore helpless fowl. And he never shot a duck on the water, either. Not Zac. Mighty glad I was that he could shoot like that, too, for he saved my life.” “Bandit trouble?” asked Lanky.