Late one afternoon a horseman ambled into camp and alighted leisurely close to the wagon. He left his mount standing almost on top of the pots whilst he secured a match from a drawer in the chuckbox. Now, it is contrary to camp tradition to bring one's horse within a certain radius.

Fat Dave stuck his arms akimbo and surveyed the visitor with ill-concealed rage.

"What for you don't hitch him to the coffee pot?" he sneered. "Perhaps you'd best put that ol' skate in my bed."

"Pshaw!" said the other, laughing. "I clean forgot, Dave."

He led the beast beyond the woodpile and returned to the fire. Dave was lifting some coals with a shovel, to put under a pot.

"Going to be with us, Ben?" he inquired, considerably mollified.

"I was sort of figuring on it."

A long silence, while the cook spread live coals on top of the Dutch oven wherein the bread was baking.

"Why, I didn't know you run any cattle, Ben."

"A few ol' cows. They're my nephew's," said the other.

He squatted on a pile of bedding and engaged the cook in conversation. A close observer might have remarked that Dave was wary in his replies--at least, wary for Dave, who was accustomed to call a spade a d.a.m.ned shovel.

"How're the boys off for beddin'?" asked the visitor.

"Right scarce. These nights get right cold now, I can tell you."

"Somebody'll find room for me, don't you reckon?"

Dave considered a moment.

"You can sleep with me, Ben," he said finally.

When the boys rode in to supper, tired and quiet from a punishing day, the cook seized an opportunity to speak to the boss. Lafe was adding up figures in a tally-book on the rim of a wagon wheel.

"Say, Lafe," began the cook, "this here nester, Ben Walsh, that just come in--"

"Well?" said Johnson.

"What's he doing here? What does he want? That's what I'd like to know.

Hey?"

"He came to get his cattle, I reckon."

"Cattle?" Dave snorted. "Him? Why, he never had even a dogie calf. No, sir; no, Lafe, that Walsh is a bad hombre. He's mean. Meaner'n poison.

None of the Moffatts ain't no meaner."

"The Moffatts?" Lafe repeated, pausing with his pencil in midair.

"What's this nester got to do with Steve Moffatt or his kin?"

"Why," said the cook, "this Ben done married Moffatt's sister. He sure thinks he's some gunman, too, Ben does--most as good as Steve."

The boss was very thoughtful as they ate their meal. He spoke civilly to Walsh and discussed with him the condition of cattle and gra.s.s, and the water supply. He even offered Dave an extra blanket on learning that the cook had proffered the visitor a bed.

During the work next day, as Lafe was dispersing his riders, he stopped to ask of Walsh: "Where do you figure you're most like to find yours, Mr. Walsh?"

The nester mentioned a stretch of chaparral, and Johnson a.s.signed him to that strip. He noted that Walsh performed his tasks indolently. Once, too, while they were working the herd, he caught a criticism of his methods that the nester was voicing to a cowboy. Lafe did not show any resentment, although the tone employed was raised purposely that he might hear, but bode his time.

A couple of days pa.s.sed and the boss became aware that he was being made a b.u.t.t by the nester. Malcontents can be found in every outfit. So there were some in the Anvil who listened to Walsh's low-voiced talk and joined readily in the laugh. After supper on the third evening, one of the old hands told Lafe that Walsh was "knocking" him.

"I know," said Johnson.

"But it hurts you with the boys," the other protested. "They don't work so good. Why, to-day, when you put Walsh on day herd and he went to the spring instead, a lot of 'em laughed and joked."

"Sure," said Lafe, evenly, "I know. I'm just waiting. Thanks, all the same, Mit."

Unvarying civility for another day on Johnson's part; on Walsh's, a cautious expansion of his policy of weakening discipline. The next night somebody inaugurated a game of pitch on a saddle-blanket by lantern light. Although the boss had not absolutely tabooed gambling, of late he had discountenanced it among the Anvil boys on the roundup. He was about to order the game stopped, when he perceived that Walsh was one of the players. Upon that he walked over and asked to be allowed to take a hand.

The game ran with varying fortune. The players praised or cursed the cards with gusto, according to their luck, as is the way with cowboys--except Johnson, who won or lost with equal imperturbability.

During a pause, someone told a story. Next deal, Walsh capped it with another. Just as he reached the point, he paused suddenly to examine his cards.

"And what," said Lafe, whose mind was on other things, "what did the girl do then?"

Walsh promptly sprang the point, a time-worn catch which under any other circ.u.mstances Lafe would have readily foreseen. The majority of the spectators around the blanket broke into crackling laughter. A few kept silent, for there was a venom, a calculated malice in Walsh's tone which did not escape the older men. The boss felt it, and for a moment his eyes held Walsh's steadily. Both wore guns, as did every man during roundup. Then Lafe threw back his head and laughed with such unaffected heartiness that the nester seemed puzzled. Throughout the remainder of the game he looked rather crestfallen.

Dave was cooking dinner about noon. The nester lolled in camp, having advanced a plea of sickness to avoid work that morning. When the sun was past its height, the outfit galloped in. Behind came Johnson, his horse moving at a sober walk. He was dragging a cow at the end of his rope.

Arrived close to the fire, he ordered Mit to heel the animal, and when she was stretched out, borrowed a sharp knife from the cook. Then he went to the cow's head and took hold of her tongue.

"Land's sake, Lafe," cried Dave, "what do you aim to do now?"

"Split her tongue," said Johnson.

"Oh," said the cook. Everybody seemed satisfied.

"Split her tongue?" Walsh echoed, raising himself from a tarpaulin.

"That's a new one on me. What're you going to do that for?"

"So she can lick both sides of her calf at once," Lafe drawled, and released the animal.

A perfect gale of laughter swept from the Anvil outfit.

"d.a.m.n my fat haid! d.a.m.n my ol' fat haid!" bellowed the cook.

A fig for Walsh and his prowess as a gunfighter! Dave feared no man. He went his way, grouchy and unreckoning, secure in the sanct.i.ty that hedges a cook. Besides, if that failed him, he had usually a pothook handy. Now, he threw himself flat on his back and kicked his heels in the air.

One must give Walsh his due. He had pluck to spare, but ridicule is the hardest thing to face in life. Besides, what earthly use was there in defying a whole outfit? He gave a sickly smile and returned to his tarpaulin.

To him came Lafe after dinner.

"How're you feeling?" he asked.