The Colonel, however, did notice that something was wrong with Bud. He began of a sudden to grow reckless and unreliable. This change of disposition in his best hand puzzled and annoyed the ranch owner very much. For Bud had always been a faithful worker, full of energy. As a judge of stock he had few equals, while he could handle horses and cattle with unusual skill. A good deal of the Colonel’s success in ranching was due to Nixon’s help. Nixon knew this well enough, and he was a little presumptuous around the place because of it, bossing the other boys, and taking liberties in various ways that no other hand would dare to take. The Colonel did not like this, but out of regard for Bud’s good services, he overlooked the fault. Colonel Morgan, however, was no easy-going manager. Quite the contrary. His military training had made him a strict disciplinarian, and when Bud carried things too far, neglecting his duties to sport about the valley, he received a rather sharp suggestion from his master to mend his ways. “I’ll take keer of myself all right, Colonel, you needn’t bother about me,” returned Bud, with a touch of insolence in his tone. “Well, see that you do; and for your own good you had better cut out your rough stuff,” returned the Colonel. “Well, I’ve allus done my full stint around this ranch, ain’t I? and I’m jist as good as any one on it.” “Yes, you’ve been a good worker and I appreciate what you have done; now just keep on doing your duty and we’ll have no trouble,” returned the Colonel in kindly tone, ignoring the offensive suggestions in Bud’s talk. He desired no break between them. “All right, boss!” Bud turned and walked away to the corral to pick up some task he had been directed to do. There was something still in the tone and manner that the old soldier did not like, but he passed it by, hoping that Bud would soon come back to himself. Instead of this he grew more undependable and arrogant day by day, until the Colonel’s patience was about exhausted. He held his feelings in check, however, until Bud brought on the crisis. Bud was at the dance that night, of course, carrying enough of the bad whisky dispensed at the races to be ugly and itching for a fight. Everybody knew he was there, too. He danced about boisterously for a time, then sat in the corner telling crude yarns, while the dance whirled on about him. He would not deign to ask Alta to dance with him, but he eyed her closely, and it punished him severely to see her so popular with the boys, so happily careless and beautiful as she glided around the gay room. Once she had caught him watching her, and had nodded smilingly; but receiving only a sullen stare in response, she gave no further attention to him for the rest of the evening until the row came. It was some time after twelve that the storm broke. The midnight supper scraps had been cleared away and the crowd fell to singing, “We won’t go home till mornin’,” with lusty voices.