“It’s a hill of a racket ye’re makin’,” said Pat Kelsey, the cook; “can’t ye let a feller slape a little?” “Oh, cut out your sleepin’; let’s do some celebratin’. Have you forgotten it’s the glorious Fourth of July? Come, have a drink with me, Pat.” He dashed a cup of water into the waking Irishman’s face. “Ye dirty son of a Yankee!” blurted Pat, jumping up, and making for the joker; “it’s auld Ireland that can lick you, if auld England didn’t.” “Stop, or I’ll shoot,” said Jim, jerking a flask of whisky out of his hip pocket, and pointing it at the wrathful cook. “Be jabers, if it’s loaded,” said Pat, checking himself, “I’ll give up.” He grabbed the bottle out of Jim’s hand, uncorked it, and said, “Here’s to Ameriky, the land that Saint Patrick Henry didicated to liberty.” Then he took a long drink and smacked his lips. The rest of the boys, roused by the noise, were laughing over the fun. “Pass the bottle around, Pat,” said Jim; “drink hearty, boys.” Every one but Dan Miller and Fred Benton took a drink; they passed the bottle on with thanks. “Oh, will, boys,” said Pat, “there’s more for them as likes it.” He raised the bottle and took another drink. A wild thumping of horses’ hoofs was heard outside. The boys jumped up and reached the door just as a band of half-tipsy cowboys from Morgan’s and other ranches, with Bud Nixon at their head, charged up to the shack. They checked their ponies with a suddenness that sent the gravel flying in front of them. “Hello, you stags!” shouted Nixon; “got anything to drink?” “Sure an’ we have,” returned Pat; “bring the bucket, Tiddy, and water ’em.” “Oh, to hell with your water; give us some whisky.” “Well, seein’s it’s you,” said Jim, reaching up the flask. It soon went the rounds and returned empty. “Got any race horses?” said Nixon. “Yes, a whole herd of ’em that can kick dust in your eyes.” “Talk’s cheap, but it takes money to buy whisky. Bet ye my bridle ’gin yours that my horse can outrun yours.” “It’s a go. Your bridle’s mine,” said Jim, starting for the barn, while the rest of the boys continued bantering one another and matching their ponies for other races. A race track, about a quarter of a mile stretch along the dusty road, was chosen. Dick Davis and Bill Peters were selected as starters. Dan Miller and Tick Johnson were the judges. Pat was elected stakeholder. The first race was between Silver Bill, one of the blooded animals of the Morgan ranch, and Tex, Jim’s best saddle horse. The two cowboys, with saddles and with chaps on, jogged off to the starting place and began to play for a good start. Suddenly they whirled and leaped together across the line towards the goal, the eager riders leaning low with quirts flying. Jim’s horse held an easy lead for nearly half the way, then he lost it, the longer-winded roan gradually slipping up and past him. When they dashed by the judges, Bud was full two rods ahead.