Show Low was the only sleeper who had not responded to Parenthesis' call. That worthy walked over and gave him a kick which brought forth a grunt but no other sign of an awakening. Returning to the fire, Parenthesis took a tin cup and poured himself out a cup of coffee. "Heard any word from him yet?" he asked, as he gulped the beverage. "Nothin'," replied Sage-brush grimly. "Slim wrote from Fort Grant he was on the trail, but the 'Paches were out an' they wouldn't let him leave the fort till the soldiers went with him." "Slim hadn't oughter gone and left things the way he did. Buck McKee is gettin' a lot of bad men together, and 'lows he is goin' to run for sheriff himself," growled Fresno. "He's sure got a tough outfit with him; Slim being away ain't doin' us any good. All the rustlers from Texas an' New Mexico came trailin' into the country just as soon as they heard he was gone. Won't surprise me if we have a run in with the bunch afore we git through with this round-up." "I got my eye on that Peruna," interjected Fresno. "Peruna! who's he?" asked Texas. "One of Buck's outfit," answered Fresno. "He is mighty slick with the runnin'-iron and brandin' other folks' calves." "We can't be too careful," warned Sage-brush. "Things is strained to the bustin'-point, and any promise of gun-play is goin' to set off a whole lot of fireworks." Show Low was on the verge of waking up. This he did, by gradually increasing the volume of each snore and breaking it off with a whistle. At the very moment Sage-brush suggested gun-play, Show Low snorted his loudest. "What's that?" asked Sage-brush, grabbing his revolver. "Show Low. He's a regular brass band when he gets started--from the big trombone down to the tin whistle," laughed Fresno. "It's a wonder he can sleep alongside of that noise." "He can't," Fresno volunteered. "He'll wake himself up in a minute. He's off now." The snores of Show Low grew more frequent until he climaxed his accompaniment to sleep with one awful snort, which awakened him. "Eh, what's that?" he yelled, as he bounded to a sitting posture. "Didn't I tell you?" queried Fresno. Sage-brush grinned and slowly arose, gathering up his saddle and rope. Swinging one over each arm, he started toward the corral, saying: "Come on, boys, we got a lot to do to-day. Git your hosses." The night riders, were coming into camp greeting their comrades with grunts, or in a few words telling them what to guard against in some particular part of the grazing herd. The sun had risen. The cattle were on their feet browsing the short, sweet grass, moving slowly toward the river. "Work," growled Show Low, "darn me if I ain't commenced to hate it." Fresno picked up his saddle to follow his foreman, but paused long enough to fire this parting shot at the cook: "Say, Parenthesis, if them biscuits you're makin' is as hard as the last bunch, save four of 'em for me. I want to shoe that pony of mine."