“You no kumtux Chinook?” inquired Drake. “Travel with me and you'll learn all sorts of languages. It means just a big feed. All whiskey is barred,” he added to Brock. “It's the only way,” said the foreman. “They've got those Pennsylvania men up there.” Drake had not encountered these. “The three brothers Drinker,” said Brock. “Full, Half-past Full, and Drunk are what they call them. Them's the names; they've brought them from Klamath and Rogue River.” “I should not think a Chinaman would enjoy such comrades,” ventured Mr. Bolles. “Chinamen don't have comrades in this country,” said Brock, briefly. “They like his cooking. It's a lonesome section up there, and a Chinaman could hardly quit it, not if he was expected to stay. Suppose they kick about the whiskey rule?” he suggested to Drake. “Can't help what they do. Oh, I'll give each boy his turn in Harney City when he gets anxious. It's the whole united lot I don't propose to have cut up on me.” A look of concern for the boy came over the face of foreman Brock. Several times again before their parting did he thus look at his favorite. They paused at Harper's for a day to attend to some matters, and when Drake was leaving this place one of the men said to him: “We'll stand by you.” But from his blithe appearance and talk as the slim boy journeyed to the Malheur River and Headquarter ranch, nothing seemed to be on his mind. Oregon twinkled with sun and fine white snow. They crossed through a world of pines and creviced streams and exhilarating silence. The little waters fell tinkling through icicles in the loneliness of the woods, and snowshoe rabbits dived into the brush. East Oregon, the Owyhee and the Malheur country, the old trails of General Crook, the willows by the streams, the open swales, the high woods where once Buffalo Horn and Chief E-egante and O-its the medicine-man prospered, through this domain of war and memories went Bolles the school-master with Dean Drake and Brock. The third noon from Harper's they came leisurely down to the old Malheur Agency, where once the hostile Indians had drawn pictures on the door, and where Castle Rock frowned down unchanged. “I wish I was going to stay here with you,” said Brock to Drake. “By Indian Creek you can send word to me quicker than we've come.” “Why, you're an old bat!” said the boy to his foreman, and clapped him farewell on the shoulder. Brock drove away, thoughtful. He was not a large man. His face was clean-cut, almost delicate. He had a well-trimmed, yellow mustache, and it was chiefly in his blue eye and lean cheek-bone that the frontiersman showed. He loved Dean Drake more than he would ever tell, even to himself.