square miles without a foot of barb-wire, a pasture fenced in by
natural forces, with the splendid feature that the buffalo could
browse on the plain in winter, and go up into the cool foothills
of Buckskin in summer.

From another ridge we saw a cabin dotting the rolling plain, and
in half an hour we reached it. As we climbed down from the wagon
a brown and black dog came dashing out of the cabin, and promptly
jumped at Moze. His selection showed poor discrimination, for
Moze whipped him before I could separate them. Hearing Jones
heartily greeting some one, I turned in his direction, only to he
distracted by another dog fight. Don had tackled Moze for the
seventh time. Memory rankled in Don, and he needed a lot of
whipping, some of which he was getting when I rescued him.

Next moment I was shaking hands with Frank and Jim, Jones's
ranchmen. At a glance I liked them both. Frank was short and
wiry, and had a big, ferocious mustache, the effect of which was
softened by his kindly brown eyes. Jim was tall, a little
heavier; he had a careless, tidy look; his eyes were searching,
and though he appeared a young man, his hair was white.

"I shore am glad to see you all," said Jim, in slow, soft,
Southern accent.

"Get down, get down," was Frank's welcome--a typically Western
one, for we had already gotten down; "an' come in. You must be
worked out. Sure you've come a long way." He was quick of speech,
full of nervous energy, and beamed with hospitality.