The big Irishman was as good as his word, for before the summer closed on the Three-Bar-Cross Ranch Paul had worked his way to the first rank as a cowman and was drawing pay second only to the foreman, “Squatty” Hayes, and without exciting the envy of any of his fellow-riders, unless it was that of “Squatty” to a certain extent. But “Squatty” was too sure of himself and too lazy, if the truth be told, to worry over the rapid rise of a kid rider like Paul. The boy he bullied unmercifully, making him fetch and carry shamelessly. But Paul’s good temper and good cheer were unfailing and he never seemed to notice what was so obvious to every rider on the ranch as well as to every member of the McConnell household. Nor would he ever have noticed “Squatty’s” tendency to ride him had it not been that the indignant fury of McConnell’s fiery hearted and fiery headed sixteen-year-old daughter Molly made her take a hand in the game. One evening as Paul came riding up to the bunk house door after a long day in the saddle and was walking stiff and weary with his horse to the corral, “Squatty’s” big voice boomed out after him. “Hey, there, kid! Bring up my bronk, will you? I’m in a hurry. Get a move on!” “All right, ‘Squatty,’” answered Paul cheerily. “Say, Paul! Don’t you do it!” rang out the girl’s voice, till the whole bunk house heard. “Why do you let that big stiff boss you around?” Paul stood looking at her in mild surprise. “Why? Well, he is boss, isn’t he?” he said, a slow smile coming to his face. “You’re hired to ride herd, not to lick his boots.” “Why, I don’t——” “You do!” cried Molly, flinging down the reins on the neck of her temper. “You do! Tell him to go to hell!” “All right,” said Paul cheerfully. Then, raising his voice, he sang out, “‘Squatty,’ you go to hell!” and moved off with his pony to the corral. A high tide of strongly sulphurous and quite unintelligible language preceded “Squatty” from the bunk house, ending in the quite intelligible question, “What’s that you say, kid?” “Didn’t you hear?” inquired Paul innocently, as he strolled on his way. “Look here! you blankety, blank young pup, I’ll knock your blank, blankety blank head off.” Paul stopped abruptly, swung his horse round, and leaned up against him. “Ladies present, ‘Squatty,’” he said quietly. The quiet tone was like oil to flame with “Squatty.” “Huh!” said Molly. “He don’t make no difference for them!” “I’ll show you!” said “Squatty,” striding up to Paul and throwing his full weight into a swinging drive with his right at the boy’s head.