She had much more to impart, having rehearsed it mentally on the way over in order to be effective, but here rage and tears choked speech. Perhaps it was as well; finical people may even find something to deplore in what Mrs. Floyd did say. Mrs. Tracey answered, tucking her chin into her neck, that she was very, very glad to hear it, but, for herself, she must confess complete inability to discover any grounds for pride in Mr. Johnson's acquaintance. Upon which she slammed the door. "Now, I wonder if that lady meant something?" Lafe murmured gently. That was forever the way. People were never indifferent to Johnson. They either swore by him or execrated his name, which ought to be held to his credit. A man's virtues must be negative if he make no enemies. Here is the story of Lafe's advent in our part of the world--merely the facts, and not the tale Mrs. Tracey spread. No man will blame him, and let those of her sex judge Mrs. Floyd who have never erred a hair's breadth. We will then consider the jury. The Lazy L outfit was loading a train with cattle--ones and twos, graded stuff and some bulls--when Johnson first appeared. He arrived on a freight, presumably. It is my belief he was heading back for Texas on the bumpers of an eastbound that passed. It stopped for water and he dropped off when he perceived us shipping. Forty yearlings had been manhandled and heaved into a car, and one old bull was added which would eventually visit eastern parts in tins. Perhaps the range monarch had some suspicion of this, for he turned round to walk out. They yelled, and prodded at his neck and ribs with poles, but the bull shook his head in settled determination and started down the chute. If he gained the crowding pen, where more yearlings and another bull waited, there would be a fight and a lot of mussing and long delay. The boss danced up and down, swearing like a moss-trooper. "Bar the chute! Bar the chute!" he yelled from the top of the corral fence. Ere the poles could be thrust in, a seedy individual stepped down directly in front of the giant Hereford and began to lash him furiously over the face with a rope. "Come out of there! You'll get killed. Come out!" cried the boss. The bull bellowed with rage, but the sting of the blows forced his head up. Blood trickled down his nose, and there were livid wales above the eyes. One lurch forward and this man would be crushed, but the rope cut fiercely and without pause, and the bull began to back. The stranger did not let up, but drove him into the car with savage recklessness. "What the Sam Hill are you, anyhow?" said the boss, straddling the fence. "A circus or a town cowboy?" Now, a "town cowboy" is a term of reproach among us, signifying a young man who never did range work, but wears the clothes and does trick roping for the delectation of visitors. Ultimately he joins a Wild West show and instructs the rising generation.