Hopalong, ignoring Crawford, looked around the little group and smiled grimly. "Well, last night our stragglers was stampeded. Lanky told me he saw somethin’ gray blow past him in th’ darkness, an’ then th’ herd started. We managed to turn it from th’ trail an’ so it did n’t set off our main herd. Jimmy was near killed—well, you know what it is to ride afore stampeded cows. I found this cover blowed agin’ a li’l clump of trees, an’ when I sees yore mark, I reckoned I ought to bring it back." He dug into his pocket and brought out a heavy clasp knife. "I just happened to see this not far from where th’ herd started from, so I reckoned I ’d return it, too." He held it out to Barnes, who took it with an oath and wheeled like a flash to face his employer. Crawford was backing toward the wagon, his hand resting on the butt of his gun, and a whiteness of face told of the fear that gripped him. "I ’ll take my time, right now," growled Barnes. "D—d if I works another day for a low-lived coyote that ’d do a thing like that!" The punchers behind him joined in and demanded their wages. Hopalong, still smiling, waved his hand and spoke. "Don’t leave him with all these cows on his hands, out here on th’ range. If you quits him, wait till you get to Sandy Creek. He ain’t no man, he ain’t; he ’s a nasty lil brat of a kid that couldn’t never grow up into a man. So, that bein’ true, he ain’t goin’ to get handled like a man. I ’m goin’ to lick him, ’stead of shootin’ him like he was a man. You know," he smiled, glancing around the little circle, "us cowpunchers don’t never carry guns. We don’t swear, nor wear chaps, even if all of us has got ’em on right now. We say ’please’ an’ ’thank you’ an’ never get mad. Not never wearin’ a gun I can’t shoot him; but, by G—d, I can lick him th’ worst he’s ever been licked, an’ I ’m goin’ to do it right now." He wheeled to start after the still-backing cowman, and leaped sideways as a cloud of smoke swirled around his hips. Crawford screamed with fear and pain as his Colt tore loose from his fingers and dropped near the wheel of the wagon. Terror gripped him and made him incapable of flight. Who was this man, _what_ was he, when he could draw and fire with such speed and remarkable accuracy? Crawford’s gun had been half raised before the other had seen it. And before his legs could perform one of their most cherished functions the limping cowpuncher was on him, doing his best to make good his promise. The other half of the Diamond Bar drive crew, attracted by the commotion at the chuck wagon, rode in with ready guns, saw their friends making no attempt at interference, asked a few terse questions and, putting up their guns, forthwith joined the circle of interested and pleased spectators to root for the limping redhead. [Illustration: Crawford’s Colt tore loose from his fingers and dropped near the wagon wheel] * * * * *