"Well," resumed Buck, "one noon, in th' foothills, we come on what we
was after, an' we did some stalkin' t' do it. We ketched three guys
red-handed. They was artistic-like re-brandin' some of our calves so's
Lazy I'd read Circle W. 'Course, they wa'n't but one thing t' do with
them fellers, an' we perceeds to do it. But unfortunate enough they
wa'n't a tree within miles of that there spot. It'd seem as though
nature hadn't figured on no rus'lers conductin' bizness there, an'
gettin' caught.

"We felt purty bad about that, an' knowin' those fellers as we did made
us feel worse. They sure didn't deserve shootin'. Then Lem Fisher, who
always was handy with his memory, happens t' think of a canyon 'bout
three mile away, with a bridge over it. Sort o' like that place at the
water tank, where them boys was strung up this mornin', only deeper, an'
th' stream under it swifter an' rockier.

"Well, we conducts our three friends to this here canyon. They draw lots
t' see who goes first, an' a feller named Red Mike wins--- or loses,
rather--as he gets number one. The noose of one of these common manilas
is attached to Mike's neck, th' other end is fastened to th' bridge,
an' he's dropped over.

"An' would you b'lieve it? When Mike comes to the end of that there rope
with a jerk, th' rope breaks, an' Mike goes cavortin' down that swift
stream, at th' rate of 'bout thirty miles an hour, bumpin' against th'
rocks an' everythin'. An' he sure must 'a' disliked that, for he hated
water.

"The next feller on th' programmy was called 'Sure Thing' Jones. You c'n