Straight for the winged fences Teddy directed the pony. For a moment they were hidden from view, so thick was the dust, and when they came into sight again the boy was almost within them. And still he kept on. When it seemed as though he must surely be swept into the corral by the beasts behind him and cut to ribbons under their hoofs, he whirled the bronco. Flash answered the call. He shot to the left, his flank nearly grazed by the horns of the leaders, leaped frantically--and was clear. Teddy’s part was over. The rushing herd, unable to stop or to change direction, flowed through the gates into the corral. Those in front were smashed solidly against the fence at the extreme end. The others rushed forward, their momentum carrying them where they had no desire to go. Within four minutes it was finished--the cattle were safely within the corral, every last one of them. Sing Lung and Joe, who were waiting, rushed forward and dropped the bars. Teddy had not failed. Mr. Manley was the first to reach the boy, and Roy was the second. “Son, you’re there! Congratulations! Boy, you sure turned that trick! Shake!” Father and son clasped hands in a firm grip. “Thanks, Dad,” Teddy answered, grinning. “It was as much Flash as it was me. He practically did the whole thing.” “Don’t let him get away with that!” Roy shouted. “Teddy, congrats! That was a big job. And you did it, too.” “You mean ‘I done well’,” Teddy laughed. “Baby, I’m sort of shot! Let’s get off these ponies.” The men, dismounting, crowded about Teddy, shaking his hand, clapping him on the back, none too gently. And this praise was well deserved. It was the first time the boy had been “general” of a round-up, and everything had depended on his skill in starting the rush at precisely the right moment and not swinging out of the way a second too soon. Besides this, he had to keep the pace down at the most dangerous time, half an hour before he “broke” the cattle. In these few minutes the success of a round-up is decided. It means untold labor if the leader bungles his job--and death for the bungler under the feet of the cattle. The excitement wore off gradually, and the men sat down to their meal. The rest of the days on the round-up were to be spent on unromantic work--cutting out undesirable cattle, branding, “tailing” and so forth. Then the horses held in reserve would be needed, for this work is very wearing on the ponies. A careless puncher can easily ride a horse to death. During the meal talk flowed freely. The men were relieved of a great responsibility, and they reacted accordingly. “Teddy, there’s one thing I’m sorry for,” Roy declared, with a wink at his father. “Yea? Well, go ahead. I suppose it’s some sort of wise crack.” “Wise crack? Oh, no, nothing like that. I was thinking--” “Well, spill it! I’m waiting.” “Golly, Teddy, your face looks as though it had been painted with dirt! All in streaks.” “What of it? What were you going to say?”