"I'm afraid he might hurt you. He's a regular man's horse, Jimmy." Doug
lighted a cigarette while the Moose reared.

"Thanks," grunted Jimmy. "Say, did you know Scott Parsons has had four
young calves by one milch cow, all the same age? Ree-markable man,
Scott. Say, I was by there the other day and there sat Scott in the
corral on Ginger cracking a black snake at this fool cow to make her
let those four slicks eat. He'll die rich, Scott will. He's the
calf-gettingest rider in the Rockies."

Douglas turned the Moose into the home trail. When he reached the ranch,
Judith was strolling in the main corral with her arm about the neck of
the bull Scott had given her. He would follow Judith about like a pet dog
but would allow no one else to touch him.

"When he is a little older, you won't be able to play with him that way,
Jude," said Douglas, eying the pair with admiration not untinctured with
apprehension.

It was a brilliant afternoon, with the western sun throwing long
golden shadows across old Dead Line Peak. The corral with its fringe of
quivering aspens a silvery lavender; the great red bull; the young girl
with her noble proportions, rubbing the brute's ferocious head with one
slender brown hand, made an unforgettable picture. The puppy, Wolf Cub,
was chewing an old boot beside the alfalfa stack.

"He'll always be fond of me if I handle him right," said Judith. "Won't
you, Sioux? I'm going to saddle him, some day, Doug."

"Well, not while I'm around," exclaimed the young rider, as he pulled the