"You saved that valuable bunch of special cattle, and you bring me as a guest a man, who, I think, can do me a lot of good."

"I'm glad to hear it, Dad!"

"Yes, your father and I have been talking irrigation, Dave," said Mr.

Bellmore, who had taken a sudden liking to the young cowboy. And to himself Dave could not but admit that the more he saw of Mr. Bellmore the better he liked him. "We think we can get together on this irrigation project," the Chicago man went on.

"Of course that is if we can deal with Molick," suggested the ranchman.

"Oh, yes, it depends a great deal on Molick," Mr. Bellmore admitted.

"I wish it didn't," Dave said.

"Why, son?" asked Mr. Carson.

Then Dave told his story, which was received with rather ominous shakes of the head on the part of Mr. Carson.

"Well," said the owner of Bar U ranch, when Dave had finished, "there's no two ways about it! I wish it hadn't happened, and I think as you do, Dave, that Molick, or some of his friends, had a hand in it. However, that isn't proof, and we can't move until we get better evidence than just a saw.

"Another thing I'm sorry for--this may make more bad feeling between Mr.

Molick and myself. There's not much love lost between us as it is," he went on, "and this will only add to his feeling."

"I'm sorry, Dad," Dave began.

"Oh, it isn't your fault," said Mr. Carson, quickly. "You acted as you thought best, and I haven't a word of fault to find. It just had to be so, I reckon. But I'll know how to act--that's one thing sure. I'll be on my guard from now on."

"It will be best so," said Mr. Bellmore.

A little later Pocus Pete and one of the cowboys returned, to report that the fence had been repaired.

"Where's Gimp?" asked Dave, referring to the other cowpuncher who had ridden with him.

"Oh, he stayed there on guard. Thought it best t' leave him there--to-night anyhow," the foreman said to Mr. Carson.

"I understand," was the answer. "We can't afford to lose any of those steers."

They were all up late at Bar U ranch that night, for the day had been a momentous one. Then, too, the visit of Mr. Bellmore had created a little diversion. He and Mr. Carson sat up for some time after the others had retired, talking irrigation matters.

"I wonder if I'll ever have a part in them?" reflected Dave, as he went to his room. "How long can I stay here, now that I know I am not Dave Carson--but somebody else? And who am I?"

Dave's wonderings were not of the most cheerful sort as he fell into an uneasy slumber.

CHAPTER XI

HAZARDOUS WORK

Cowboys rushing here and there. Dust arising in clouds, settling into a hazy mist, only to be shattered again, as some rushing rider rode recklessly through it. Yells, shouts, the snapping of whips, the barking of heavy calibred revolvers, now and then the shrill neigh of a cow-pony.

Above all a deep resonant note--a sort of distant thunder--a pounding of the earth as thousands of hoofs smote it at once.

That was the scene on which Dave Carson gazed, as he rose in his saddle, his breath coming in quicker measures, while a fierce light shone in his eyes, for he was having a part in it all.

It was one of the many round-ups on the Bar U range, and there was work for all, more than enough.

"Hi there, Gimp! Watch where yo-all are a-ridin'!"

"Swing him over there! I'll handle that critter!"

"What's the matter with your fire? Can't git no kind of an impression with irons as cold as a chunk of ice!"

"Look out for that cayuse! He's sh.o.r.e a bad 'un!"

"Over this way now!"

"That's talkin'!"

This was only some of the talk, part of the shouts, a few of the yells that were bandied back and forth, as the cowboys rounded up the herd, cut out the designated steers or cows, branded the new ones that had never yet felt the touch of the hot iron, and generally did the work that falls to every ranch at certain times of the year.

Dave had been among the busiest, now roping some refractory steer, now helping a cowboy heat the big irons, with their mark "Bar U.", now scudding out of the way on the back of his fleet pony, Crow. Now finding a moment of respite, he galloped up to where Mr. Bellmore was sitting in the shade of the chuck wagon, as the cooking outfit is known.

"Well, what do you think of it?" asked the young cowboy, as he pulled his horse back sharply, so that Crow reared. But he was used to that, and Dave was exceptionally gentle with him.

"It's just great!" exclaimed the man who had been a semi-invalid since coming to Bar U ranch. "I never imagined there was so much work attached to a round-up."

"Oh, there's work all right," said Dave, removing his big hat and wiping the sweat from his brow with a big handkerchief. "It isn't much like locating a water trail, I expect?"

"Not much," a.s.sented the visitor, who had now been at the ranch about a week, and who was progressing favorably. His ankle would not yet permit him to step on it, but he managed to get about with the help of his horse.

To-day he had ridden out in the chuck wagon to witness the round-up.

"Locating a good place to plant an irrigation scheme is child's play compared to this cattle business," went on Mr. Bellmore. "Still I suppose you get more or less used to it."

"In a way, yes," said Pocus Pete, who rode up just then. "But there are always some things you never can count on. Gimp's horse just broke his leg," he added, more to Dave than to the visitor.

"You don't say!" exclaimed the lad. "That will make Gimp feel bad."

"Well, it's all in the game," added the foreman with a shrug of his shoulders. "That's the end of him," he went on as a shot rang out. There had been little firing of late, for the work of branding the strays and other cattle was almost over.

"Did he shoot him?" asked Mr. Bellmore.

"Th' horse? yes!" said Pete sententiously.

"That's all we can do for a horse when he breaks a leg. He ain't no good to anybody. That's the law of th' range. Yo've got t' make good or quit!"

"Poor Star," murmured Dave. "He was a good horse."