Walsh promptly sprang the point, a time-worn catch which under any other circumstances Lafe would have readily foreseen. The majority of the spectators around the blanket broke into crackling laughter. A few kept silent, for there was a venom, a calculated malice in Walsh's tone which did not escape the older men. The boss felt it, and for a moment his eyes held Walsh's steadily. Both wore guns, as did every man during roundup. Then Lafe threw back his head and laughed with such unaffected heartiness that the nester seemed puzzled. Throughout the remainder of the game he looked rather crestfallen. Dave was cooking dinner about noon. The nester lolled in camp, having advanced a plea of sickness to avoid work that morning. When the sun was past its height, the outfit galloped in. Behind came Johnson, his horse moving at a sober walk. He was dragging a cow at the end of his rope. Arrived close to the fire, he ordered Mit to heel the animal, and when she was stretched out, borrowed a sharp knife from the cook. Then he went to the cow's head and took hold of her tongue. "Land's sake, Lafe," cried Dave, "what do you aim to do now?" "Split her tongue," said Johnson. "Oh," said the cook. Everybody seemed satisfied. "Split her tongue?" Walsh echoed, raising himself from a tarpaulin. "That's a new one on me. What're you going to do that for?" "So she can lick both sides of her calf at once," Lafe drawled, and released the animal. A perfect gale of laughter swept from the Anvil outfit. "Damn my fat haid! Damn my ol' fat haid!" bellowed the cook. A fig for Walsh and his prowess as a gunfighter! Dave feared no man. He went his way, grouchy and unreckoning, secure in the sanctity that hedges a cook. Besides, if that failed him, he had usually a pothook handy. Now, he threw himself flat on his back and kicked his heels in the air. One must give Walsh his due. He had pluck to spare, but ridicule is the hardest thing to face in life. Besides, what earthly use was there in defying a whole outfit? He gave a sickly smile and returned to his tarpaulin. To him came Lafe after dinner. "How're you feeling?" he asked. "Better." "Well," said the boss, "we're moving to-day, Walsh. You don't seem to have found any of your stuff. It's certain you won't, where we're heading. So I reckon it'd save you trouble if you got moving." Walsh eyed him expectantly. "All right," he said at last. "You're the boss." In this manner was discipline restored among the Anvil men. CHAPTER XXXIX NEWS FROM BUFFALO JIM Rub-a-dub-dub, Three men in a tub, The butcher, the baker, The candlestick maker; They all jumped out of a holler pertater. Rub-a-dub-dub. "Do you call them your prayers?" asked Lafe sternly. "I done told you to get to bed more'n a hour ago, son. I swan I can't figure what your ma's thinking of. Now, drag it."