The cowboys spurred to his aid and dragged Tommy off him. The bulls had trotted back to the herd and were now engaged in thundering challenges to other range monarchs. Lafe stood up painfully. He put his right foot to the ground, very carefully. A smile of intense satisfaction came over his face. "Nothing broken," he said--"just shaken up. Jim-in-ee, but I'm sure lucky." He turned to Tommy, wheezing on the ground and trying weakly to rise. "Poor li'l devil. Poor ol' Tommy," he said pityingly. After a brief examination, he shot him between the eyes in order to spare him useless suffering. The boss was very blue throughout the day, and I knew it was for the horse. Tommy had been a pet, and every one of us felt what it had cost Lafe. "Poor li'l devil"--that was all, but Johnson was of the kind who would hardly have said as much audibly for a human being. Back of his grief I detected a great relief. It was almost a new sense of freedom, revealed in his eyes and his altered manner towards his men. The old quiet authority was his again. Just what he felt was shown when he said to me that night, "I reckon if a big ol' bull can't even hurt me, that I've got a few years to live yet awhile. Hey, Dan?" "You're whistling. That was a close call, though, Lafe." "If it had been Casey Jones now--" he began, but something in my face stopped him. "Did you notice?" he asked, without embarrassment. "Yes. Why did you do it?" "I got to thinking about Hetty and the kid. And then I quit--quit cold--laid down. Just watch me ride ol' Casey Jones to-morrow, though. I'll sure clean that fine gentleman." I watched him. We all did. It was a joy to behold. The sorrel was in high fettle and the ground was hard. So furiously did Casey Jones pitch--squalling through his gaping mouth at every jump--that one of his hoofs was split in two. Lafe sat him firmly, his poise yielding to every new move of the bronco, and he shouted in delight as he plied quirt and spur. Time and again Casey Jones leaped straight into the air and turned back under his rider. Johnson's head would snap back, but his seat was never shaken, and he raked the sorrel from shoulder to flank-cinch. At last Casey Jones stopped, his legs wide apart, his head drooped and his breath whistling. The Anvil men gazed in silence, but with deep approval. "Crackee," said a cowboy to me, "the boss is sure some peeler." "He certainly hasn't forgotten how." "Me and some of the boys," he went on, "we'd been figuring as how Lafe had sort of lost his nerve. It seemed queer, too, but he's been mighty low-sperited. Did you notice? I reckon that was just a mistake, don't you? It must have been." "A big mistake," I agreed. "He was just a bit worried. That was all. He'll never be that way again." CHAPTER XXXVIII HOW A MOFFATT HENCHMAN WAS OUSTED Another episode during this roundup gave Lafe a lasting reputation among cowmen for cool judgment.