The ropers hated him with an active, abiding hatred they made no effort to conceal. He was the only member of the wagon team that would not submit to be caught without roping. The other mules would trot in with the horses from pasture and walk quietly to the wagon to be bridled, under the lure of grain; but not so with the big fellow. Sam never crowded away among the horses in foolish panic when a roper walked through the remuda toward him: that was the way the cow-ponies did, struggling blindly to get beyond range, and so the noose fell about their necks with ridiculous ease. That was not Sam’s method, he being temperamentally opposed to panic. He waited until the roper approached, waited until the coil sped toward him; and then only did he dodge. As a result, he eluded the noose time after time. In fact, it always took longer to rope Sam than any five of the hundred horses. One day the hawk-eyed autocrat of the Lazy L range spurred into camp in hot haste while the outfit was partaking of dinner. Heatedly he urged: “Watch your horses Uncle Henry.” Then he went to the fire, filled a tin plate with beef and beans, and a cup with coffee, and speared a bun. “Shore. But what for special? They’re doing well and we ain’t lost one,” replied the wagon boss, making room for his chief on the shady spot where he squatted. “Then you’re in luck. That band of mustangs has roamed down here from the Flying W. They passed within two miles of the ranch yesterday and, by Jupiter, if ol’ Pete didn’t join ’em. The ol’ fool! Eleven years that horse has been a cowhorse and now he runs off from the home pasture with a bunch of wild ones.” “Where’re they heading?” “You know as much as I do. I reckon the pasture is poor on the Flying W, don’t you? They ain’t had much rain and probably this bunch’ll make for the mountains. Better watch out,” the manager admonished. Dave toiled with his team next afternoon through a waste of sand and mesquite. It was very hot--had there been such a thing as a thermometer on the wagon it would have registered better than 112--and he sat hunched on the seat, occasionally throwing an encouraging word to the straining mules. Behind came Al with the hoodlum wagon, which, being much lighter, made easy work for a pair of stout horses, so that Al dozed with his hat well down over his eyes and dreamed of a dress-maker in Doghole. It was growing towards sunset and they would pitch camp in the foothills and have supper ready for the boys before darkness fell. Without warning the mule team stopped and stood at gaze, rousing Dave abruptly. A dense cloud of dust was bearing down on them from the right and out of that swirl came the muffled pounding of many hoofs. “The remuda’s stompeded,” yelled Al. “No, they ain’t. No, they ain’t. It’s them wild horses. Git your gun, Al, quick!”