“Holy mither of Moses!” he broke loose, “and where’s the rist of me tin china? Hev them bloomin’ cow-punchers swallowed dish an’ all wid their praties? It’s no more than half my utensils I can dig up at all, at all.” He gave way to an outburst of profanity that made Fred stare. Suddenly he stopped short:--“Hold on, Patsy, me boy. That’s enough. Now cast the divil out of ye--cast him out, I say.” Pat grabbed his flask of whisky as he spoke, and took a drink. “There!” he said solemnly, “that’s better. Me feelin’s and me conscience are both relaved. There’s nuthin’ loike good spirits for castin’ out the divil, me boy. Here’s to make sure!” A long drink followed, while Fred broke into a laugh that loosed the tension of his worry and made things go better. They pitched in then and soon had things ready. A few hours later they were on the road, Pat driving the team at a lusty trot, while Fred, trailing the extra saddle horses, jogged along in the dust behind. The sun was still several hours above the western hills when they reached the rendezvous. Two other outfits had already arrived, and another swung into camp shortly afterward. The team unhitched, and another pony caught to relieve Brownie, Pat and Fred began hurriedly to get supper for the hungry range riders, who, they knew, would shortly begin to straggle in as hungry as wolves. A big quaking aspen fire was soon talking cheerily, and it was not long before the bacon and “praties” were singing in the frying pans, while the Dutch ovens were doing duty to put a tempting brown on the baking powder batter that had been poured into them. The sun had just slipped behind a bank of flaming clouds that hovered above the western hills, when the first herd of cattle was driven in, and a half-dozen cowboys whooped into camp. Too ravenous to wait, they began to attack the smoking food. Half an hour later, another bunch came; and from then on till midnight the cooks were kept busy with feeding the cowboys that continued to drift in. “Be jabers, and it’s worse than a short order café,” complained Pat. “This ‘meals at all hours’ will keep the cook up all night, I’m thinkin’.” But he kept bravely at it till all of the boys were fed. Night herders were posted to keep the big bunch of cattle within bounds. The “horse wranglers” were assigned their watch, and the other tired men, pillowing their heads on coats and saddles, tucked their blankets about them and slept like logs under the star-sown sky. Nothing unusual happened that night. Daylight broke to find the cattle still somewhat nervous, but manageable. The horses were grazing peacefully not far away; while half a dozen weary cowboys clung about the herd, half asleep in their saddles. After a time the cooks began to get busy, and one after another the sleeping cow-punchers got up, “sayin’ their prayers backwards,” as Pat put it, by damning themselves and the world in general as they stretched and yawned, and waited for breakfast.