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CHAPTER XI
CONEY ISLAND

It is wonderful how much a smile, or even a grin, will do for a disconsolate lover. Bowles woke suddenly to the beauties of nature and the wild joy of living; and that evening, instead of dropping into his blankets like a dead man, he tarried by the fire. A chill wind swept in from the frigid north, and the smoke guttered and flurried from the burning logs; but the cowboys sat about in their shirt-sleeves and blinked patiently when they caught the smoke. Inside the bunk-house the noise of the perpetual pitch game told where battles were being lost and won, a secret understanding that every game was worth a quarter on pay-day being the contributing cause for the excitement, since Henry Lee allowed no gambling among his punchers. But outside everybody was either broke or in the hole, and so there was nothing but peace and amity and long-winded arguments.

The talk for the moment was centered upon "ring-tail" in horses, a subject upon which Brigham Clark claimed to be an authority, although Bowles had never even heard of it before.

"No, sir," asserted Brigham, addressing the company at large; "you show me a ring-tailed hawse, and I'll show you a hawse with weak kidneys, every time. Now, I don't say how he gits them weak kidneys, y'understand; he may git 'em from bein' rode too young, the way Uncle Joe claims; or he may git 'em from drinkin' bad water, like folks; or he may jest be born that way. But that ain't the point – when you take a nice young hawse and turn him up a hill, and he quits and goes to ringin' his tail around – that hawse is weak, I say, or he wouldn't quit. A ring-tailed hawse is a weak hawse, and you might jest as well give 'im to the kids to play with – he'll never be no good fer a cow-pony."

Coming as this did at the end of a long and technical argument, it was allowed to pass by the company. A quiet fell, and three or four men to leeward got up to avoid the smoke; but all the time Brigham Clark sat on the box he had captured, his big black hat pushed back on his head, his hand held out to the fire, and his shrewd eyes twinkling as he gazed down into the flames. Then he shook with silent laughter, and they knew he was off on another one.

"Heh, heh, heh!" he chuckled. "Speakin' of ring-tails reminds me of a ring-tailed monkey I used to have to take care of when I was on the road. He was the orneriest little brat you ever see in yore life – a little, spider-legged proposition, with a long, limber tail, and big eyes that he'd always be winkin' and a-blinkin' while he was figurin' out some new kind of devilment – and all the time he'd be sneezin' and cuddlin' and snugglin' up ag'inst you like he loved you more'n his mammy. The boss's wife kept the little snifter fer company-like, and she'd pet and coddle and talk foolish to 'im until the boss would nigh have a fit. Jest like when a woman keeps a lap-dog, I reckon – kinder makes a man want to kill 'im, to keep her from muchin' 'im all the time.

"Well, this here lady was shore foolish about that monkey, and every mornin' when we were in a town I had to take 'im out fer a walk. Leastways, somebody had to do it; and rather than not see the town at all I'd take him along under my arm. If I'd had a hand-organ I'd shore made a lot of money that trip – but I was thinkin' about the time I took the ring out of his tail. Every time we'd come to a tree, or a fire-escape, or something like that, the little devil would begin to hook up at it with his tail; and this time I'm speakin' of we was goin' through a little park, and I'm a son-of-a-gun if he didn't git away on me. Jest reached out with his tail where it was hangin' down behind, and grabbed a limb, and slipped the collar on me.

"Yes, sir! And then he begun doin' circus stunts through them trees. First he'd climb up one, and then another, and then he hooked on to a fire-escape, and I chased him clean over a house. Policeman came along and wanted to arrest me, but I give 'im a talk and kept travelin', because I knew if I didn't ketch that monkey I didn't need to go back to the tent. Well, I chased him till my tongue hung out, but about the time I'd reach out to ketch 'im he'd swing off with his tail and git into the next tree; so I went over to a fruit store and tried to ketch 'im with bananas. Last chance I had, and I was gittin' pretty mad. All the kids was there to tease me, the policeman was tellin' me to move on – and that cussed monkey kept hangin' down by his tail and makin' faces at me, until, by grab, I reached down and took up a rock.

"'Now, hyer,' I says, holdin' up the banana, 'you'd better come down before I git hot and soak you with this,' and I showed him the size of that pavin' stone.

"'Etchee-etchee-etchee!' he says, swingin' up for a limb; and then I let 'im have it. They wasn't any ring in his tail when he come down, believe me; and when I showed the remains to the missus she like to tore my hair out. Boss he fired me – mad as the devil – then when she wasn't lookin' he slipped me a twenty, and told me to go back to Coney. There was a happy man, fellers, but he had to let on different – married, you know. So I took the twenty and went back to old Coney, where they shoot the chutes and loop the loops, and any man that's got a dime is as rich as John G. Rockefeller. Big doin's back there, fellers – you don't know what you're missin'."

An abashed silence followed this remark, calculated as it was to reduce his hearers to a proper state of humility; and then, to add to its effectiveness, the Odysseus of the cow camps turned to Bowles.

"Ain't that so, stranger?" he said; and Bowles thought he detected a twinkle in his eye.

"Yes, indeed!" he replied. "There's no place in the world like Coney Island. Changing very rapidly, too. Have you been there lately? That Dreamland is wonderful, isn't it? And Luna Park – "

"Hah!" exclaimed Brigham, slapping his leg. "That's the place! Loony Park! Ain't that the craziest place you ever see? Everything upside-down, topsy-turvy – guess I never told you boys about that. Didn't dare to, by grab – not till this gentleman come along to back me up!"

He glanced at Bowles significantly and waited for the questions.

"What does she look like, Brig?" inquired Bar Seven, the stray man. "Pretty fancy, eh?"

"Fancy!" repeated Brigham, with royal insolence. "Well, believe me, goin' through this Loony Park would make Tucson look like a cow camp! She's shore elegant – silver and gold, and big barroom looking-glasses everywhere – only everything is upside-down. You go into the house through the chimney, walk around on the ceilin' and there's all the tables and chairs stuck up on the top. Big chandeliers standin' straight up from the floor, and all the pictures hangin' wrong side to on the walls. Stairs is all built backwards, and when you're half way up, if you look like a Rube, they'll straighten 'em out like a flat board and shoot you into the attic. Talk about crazy – w'y, they's been a feller walked through this Loony Park and never knowed straight up afterwards. It's shore wonderful, ain't it, pardner?"

"Yes, indeed!" answered Bowles suavely; and, seeing that he could be relied upon, Brigham Clark cut loose with another one.

"Ain't that so, mister?" he inquired at the end; and Bowles, who saw a chance for revenge, assured the gawking cowboys that it was. These were the boys who had been gloating over him for a week and more, but now it was his turn.

"Yes, indeed," he replied, with a blasé, worldly-wise air; "quite a common occurrence, I'm sure."

At this the ready Brigham took fresh courage, and his little eyes twinkled with mischief.

"Friend," he said, "if it's none of my business, of course you'll let me know, but you've been around a little, haven't you? Seen the world, mebbe? Well now, what's the wonderfulest thing you ever see?"

A flush of pleasure mantled Bowles' sunburned face, for it was the first time he had been addressed as man to man since he struck the Bat Wing; but he did not lose the point – Brigham had a bigger story to bring out and he was waiting for a lead.

"Well," he said, "I have seen a good many wonderful exhibitions, but the one that I think of at this moment as the most striking was Selim, the diving horse. You remember him, I guess – out at Coney Island. He was a beautiful horse, wasn't he? Snowy white, with a long, flowing mane, and intelligent as a human. He mounted to a platform forty-five feet high and leaped off into a pool of water. That was the most wonderful thing I ever saw, because he did it all by himself – climbed up to the platform, stepped out to the diving-place, and jumped off when his master said the word. Yes, that was certainly wonderful."

"You bet!" assented Brig, regarding him with admiring eyes; but the others were not so easily satisfied. That was one thing they claimed to be up on – horses – and they looked the solemn stranger over dubiously.

"How high did you say that platform was?" inquired Uncle Joe cautiously. "Forty-five – well, that was shore high. I cain't hardly git my hawse to cross the crick."

"How deep was that pool?" spoke up Bar Seven, the stray man. "Ten foot? Huh! Say, boys, this reminds me of that divin' story of Brig's!"

"Well, what's the matter with that divin' story of mine?" demanded Brigham orgulously. "You're behind the times, Bar Seven. While you was on yore way this gentleman come into camp, and he's seen that done himself. What do you know about it, anyhow – spent all yore life punchin' cows and eatin' sand – what do you know about divin', anyhow?"

"Well, they's one thing I do know," retorted Bar Seven, "and that's hawses. I been with hawses all my life, and you cain't tell me about no hawse divin' – stands to reason he'd hit the bottom and break his neck, anyway!"

"Perhaps I would better explain," broke in Bowles politely. "When the horse leaves the platform he slides down an inclined chute, below which is hung a heavily padded board. As the horse slips off he naturally kicks and struggles, and his feet, flying out behind, strike the padded board so that, while he leaps off headforemost, he rights himself in the air and falls into the pool feet first. Of course, forty-five feet is quite a distance, but he probably never goes to the bottom at all."

"Well, that's all right," admitted Bar Seven. "I don't know about that – but tell me this, stranger: How does the man git that hawse to climb up there and take the jump? Tell me that, and I'll believe anything!"

"Why, certainly," said Bowles. "At the time of which I speak, a young girl rode on his back when he made the plunge – just to make it more exciting, you know – but I watched the man quite closely, and really it was very interesting. First the girl went up the long incline, which had a railing and was provided with cleats, of course. Then the trainer brought Selim out and gave him a handful of sugar from his pocket, rubbing his head and talking to him while he was begging for more, until he had him up to the chute. There he stripped the halter off and spoke to him, and the horse started up by himself, he was so eager for the reward. At the top the girl mounted him and turned him down the diving-chute; and, don't you know, the first thing he did when he got to land was to trot back and get his sugar!"

"Oh, sugar!" cried Bar Seven, in disgust; but somehow the circumstantiality of the narrative seemed to carry conviction with the others, and he found himself alone.

"What breed of hawse was that?" inquired Uncle Joe, after a pause.

"A pure-blooded Arabian," answered Bowles; "supposed to be the most intelligent horses in the world. The Arabians, you know, keep their horses about their tents and raise them as if they were children, teaching them to understand the human voice and to answer like a dog."

"W'y, sure!" broke in Brigham, artfully taking the lead again. "Don't you fellers remember that story in the school book about Ali Ben Hassan, or whatever his name was, that was wounded in a battle and his hawse picked him up by his belt and packed him back to his tent? I tell you, them A-rabs are a pretty smooth bunch of hombres. They not only savvy hawses from the ground up but they're the finest jugglers and strong-armed men that the world has ever seen. I remember back at Coney they was three brothers that did sech tricks you couldn't hardly believe it.

"They was called the Hassan brothers – all A-rabs is either named Hassan or A-li – and the oldest one was a balancer. That feller could balance a peacock feather on his nose – throw a flip-flap clean over it, and come up with it still on his nose – but that was jest fer a starter. His big stunt was balancin' clay pipes. He'd take a hundred and forty-four long-handled pipes, balance 'em one on top of the other, and then skip up to the top and set there while he took a smoke."

"What! One on top of the other?" demanded Bar Seven incredulously.

"Aw, no, you bone head!" replied Brigham impatiently. "What d'ye think – would he pile 'em up a hundred foot high? He made 'em into a kind of pyramid-like – but he was nothin' to his younger brother. That feller was a rope-sharp. You punchers think you can twirl the rope some, but you're back in the calf corral alongside of him. He could throw a loop out on the floor, and send it quilin' around like a snake, hoppin' over chairs and tables like a trained dog, and then have it come back and hog-tie 'im at one lick, so that an expert couldn't unfasten the knots in half an hour. But that was jest good rope work with him; his big play come at the end when he tied a twenty-pound weight at the end of it and began to swing it round. By Joe, that was great! And then, right at the end, when he pulled his big stuff, he heaved that weight forty foot into the air, clum up the rope and set down on top of it smokin' his cigar! Now, by grab, can you beat that?"

"Kin we beat it?" echoed Bar Seven and the bunch. "Kin we believe it – that's the point!"

"Well, what's the matter with it?" demanded Brigham irritably. "Seems like every time I tell you cotton-pickers anythin' you up an' call me a liar. What's the matter, anyway?"

"What's the matter?" yelled Bar Seven, raising his voice above the rest. "W'y, you ignorant devil, how could the feller set on the weight when it was only throwed up in the air?"

A chorus of other demands followed, but Brigham only sat on his box, smiling easily.

"Say, what do you take me for?" he inquired, gazing about him pityingly. "If I knowed how that A-rab did that rope-work, d'ye think I'd be punchin' cows? Not fer me – I'd be drawin' a thousand dollars a week back at Coney. Of co'se I can't say how it was done – no more than you can – but that's what makes the show! If the people knowed, they wouldn't come no more! Ain't that so, pardner?"

"Yes, indeed!" responded Bowles.

"W'y sure!" went on Brigham. "Anybody that knows anythin' about the show business knows that. No matter how good a stunt is, it's got to be mysterious or the people won't pay to see it. Either that, or it's got to be feats of strength and darin'. Now this youngest Hassan brother was a strong-armed man. He'd wrap a piece of chain around his arm, tighten up his muscle and pop! it'd break right square in two. Same thing with his chest – he'd wrap a loggin' chain around his breast, suck in his breast, and snap it like a thread. You've seen fellers like that, haven't you?"

"Sure!" said Bowles.

"Yes – all right!" continued Brigham apologetically. "Seems like the simplest thing I tell these fellers some rabbit-twister from Texas up and contradicts me. Well, this youngest brother had a pretty good stunt to end up with – nothin' flashy, of co'se, but pretty good fer a kid. He was powerful strong in the right arm and he'd hold it out like this" – Brigham held out his brawny arm – "and then he'd muscle up, real slow-like, and then, by grab, he'd raise himself right up, and come down over, and set right down on that thumb!"

He elevated his thumb as he spoke, and the cowboys gazed at it as if hypnotized. Then Bar Seven rose up slowly and, walking over to the defenseless Brigham, mashed his hat down over his eyes at a single blow.

"Brig," he said, his voice trembling with conviction, "you're a dad-burned liar!"

CHAPTER XII
PROMOTED

There was quite a little excitement in the bunk-house that night, and when it was at its height Brigham Clark came tottering out with his bed.

"Say, where's that friend of mine – that Coney Island feller?" he inquired, addressing the recumbent forms of men as he scouted along the wagon-shed. "I'm skeered to sleep in the same house with them cotton-pickers and old Bar Seven – they might rise up in the night and throw me into the hawse-trough. Huh? Oh, that's him over there, hey? Well, so long, fellers – kinder cold out hyer, ain't it? But I cain't sleep in that bunk-house no more – them fellers, they doubt my veracity!"

He was still chuckling with subdued laughter as he dropped his bed down in a far corner beside Bowles; but nothing was said until he had spread his "tarp" and blankets and crept in out of the cold. Then he laughed again, quivering until the earth seemed to shake with his contagious merriment.

"Say, pardner," he said, "you're all right. We capped 'em in on that proper, and no mistake. Did you see old Bar Seven's jaw drop when he saw how he was bit? I'll have that on him for many a long day now, and it'll shore cost him the drinks when we git to town next month. Gittin' too lively for me over in the bunk-house, so I thought I'd come out here with you."

"Sure!" responded Bowles, who had secretly been lonely for company. "It's rather cold out here, but the air is better."

"Yes – and the company," added Brigham meaningly. "Ain't these Texicans the ignorantest bunch? W'y, them fellers don't know nothin' till they see you laugh! I could've got away with that strong-arm business if I could've kept my face straight, but old Bar Seven was too many fer me – I jest had to snicker or I'd bust! Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh!"

"There was one thing which kind of puzzled me, though," observed Bowles. "Would you mind telling me where you got that absurd idea of the three Hassan brothers?"

"W'y, sure not," giggled Brigham, creeping closer and lowering his voice. "Don't tell anybody, but I got it off a drummer in the smokin'-car when I was comin' back from the Fair in Phœnix. The way he told it, there was an Englishman and a Frenchman and an Irishman talkin' together, each one braggin' about his own country; and the Englishman began it by tellin' about his younger brother, who wasn't nothin' hardly in England but could do that first stunt with the clay pipes. Then the Frenchman told about his brother, who wasn't nothin' for a balancer but was pretty good at rope-work; and the Irishman, in order to trump 'em right, he tells about his youngest brother that was strong in the arms. Say, that shore knocked the persimmon, didn't it? Them fellers was like the man that come out of Loony Park – they didn't know straight-up! Their eyes was stickin' out so you could rope 'em with a grape-vine, but they didn't dare to peep. Been called down too often. But say, pardner, on the dead, how about that divin' hawse?"

"Why – er – what do you mean?" asked Bowles.

"Well, did he shore enough do that, or was you jest stringin' 'em?"

"Why, yes, certainly he did! Haven't you ever heard about Selim, the diving horse? How long ago was it that you were at Coney Island?"

"Who – me?" inquired Brigham. "Never was there," he replied with engaging frankness; "never been outside the Territory. Say, you didn't think I'd shore been there, did ye?" he questioned eagerly.

"I certainly did," replied Bowles. "Of course, I knew that you were drawing the long bow this evening – but how did you get all this information if you've never been there?"

"Heh, heh, heh!" chuckled Brigham, rolling over on his bed. "Say, this is pretty good, by grab! Feller comes clear out hyer from New York, and I take him in, too! W'y, pardner, I was with a carnival company down at the Territorial Fair last fall, and that was the nearest I ever got to Coney; but they was a feller there – the ballyhoo man for Go-Go, the wild boy – and he was always tellin' me about Coney, until I knowed it like a book. Yes, sir, I jest camped right down and listened to that spieler; and he was shore glad to talk. Talkin' was his business, and he'd been at it so long he'd got the habit – couldn't help it – all he needed was some feller to listen to 'im. But all he'd talk about was Coney Island. Been there for years and didn't know nothin' else – and he shore filled me up right. Learned me all his spiels and everythin', and when I come back from winterin' in that Phœnix country I tole 'em I was back from New York. New York and the Great White Way – and Coney.

"But you shore strengthened my hand immensely, pardner, the way you he'ped out to-night. Now, we want to stand pat on this – don't tip me off to 'em – and pretty soon I'll have 'em all spraddled out ag'in. Hardy Atkins and that bunch, they make too much noise – they won't let me talk at all – but you watch me go after Bar Seven and these stray men. I'll tell ye – you put me wise to a whole lot more stuff, and I'll frame up another come-on. How's that now?"

"All right," agreed Bowles, yawning sleepily. "Good-night!"

He dropped back into his blankets and covered up his head; but Brigham failed to take the hint.

"Got any more divin' stories?" he asked, with gentle insistence. "They bite on them fine. Or a hawse story! A cowboy thinks he knows all about hawses. Go ahead and give me one now, so I can spring it on 'em in the mornin' – I got to have somethin' to come back at 'em with. They're always throwin' it into me about being a Mormon – I jest wanter show 'em that I've got the goods. Go ahead now – tell me somethin'!"

"All right," said Bowles, coming out from under his blankets; "but, really, I'm awfully sleepy!"

"Yeah; you'll git over that after you've been punchin' cows a while," observed Brigham sagely. "I'm on the wrangle again, but it don't worry me none. Cowboy's got no right to sleep, nohow. Let 'im trade his bed for a lantern – that's what they all say – but don't fergit that divin' story, pardner. Didn't you never see no more divin' stunts – in New York or somewhere?"

"Why, yes," answered Bowles, brightening up; "that reminds me – there's the Hippodrome!"

"Aha!" breathed Brigham. "What's it like?"

"Why, the Hippodrome," continued Bowles, "is an immense playhouse right in the heart of New York that's given over entirely to spectacles. It has a stage large enough to accommodate a thousand people, and a great lake out in front that is big enough to float a fleet of boats; and every year they put on some new spectacle. One year it will be the battle of Manila Bay, for instance, with ships and men and cannons, and a great shipwreck scene right there in the lake, with people falling overboard and getting drowned – and the peculiar thing is that when a boatload of people fall into that lake they never come up again. It's just the same as if they were drowned."

"Aw, say," broke in Brigham, "you're givin' me a fill, ain't you?"

"No," protested Bowles warmly; "I'm telling you the truth. Why, I saw the most glorious spectacle there one night. It represented the tempting of some young prince by Cleopatra, the beautiful Egyptian queen. There were six hundred women in the play, and as they marched and countermarched across the stage the lights would throw soft colors about them, and then as they danced the colors would change, until the whole place looked like fairyland. Then they would swing up into the air on invisible wires and hover about like butterflies – there would be a flash and all would have wings – and then they would disappear again and come out dressed in armor like Amazons. And in the last act, when the prince had sent them away, they marched down the broad stone steps that lead into the lake, four abreast, and without taking a deep breath, or showing any concern whatever, they just walked right into that deep water and disappeared. Never came up again. Gone, the whole six hundred of them!"

"Gone!" echoed Brigham in amazement. "Where to? Where'd they go to?"

"Under the water – that's all I know."

"Gee, what a lie!" exclaimed Brigham, rising up in bed. "By jicks, pardner, I shore have to take off my hat to you – you got a wonderful imagination!"

"No, indeed!" protested Bowles. "It's every word of it true. This Hippodrome was designed by the same man who built Luna Park, and invented the loop the loop, and shoot the chutes, and all those other wonderful things. I was reading an article about that Hippodrome lake and it seems he built some kind of a great metal hood down under the water and filled it with compressed air of just the right pressure to displace the water. All the details are held secret, and the very people who use it are kept in ignorance, but as near as can be found out the performers dive right down under that hood and from there they are taken off through underground passages and carried back to their dressing-rooms. Several people were drowned while they were experimenting with it, but now it's perfectly safe; I don't suppose those women mind it at all."

"No!" cried Brigham, still struggling with his emotions. "Is it as easy as that? But say," he whispered, as the magnitude of the story came over him, "jest wait till I get this off on the cowboys – I'll have me a reputation like old Tom Pepper, or Windy Bill up on the J.F.! You don't want to pull it yoreself, do you? Well, jest give me the details, then, and I'll depend on you to make my hand good when they come back for the explanation. But, by grab, if it's anythin' like what you say, I'm shore goin' to save my money and drag it fer old New York!"

"Yes, indeed," murmured Bowles, cuddling down into his bed; "I'm sure you'd enjoy it."

He fell to breathing deeply immediately, feigning a dreamless slumber, and when Brigham asked his next question Bowles was lost to the world. The cowboy's night was all too short for him, ending as it did at four-thirty in the morning, and not even a consideration for Brigham's future career could fight off the demands of sleep. Yet hardly had he closed his eyes – or so it seemed – when Gloomy Gus flashed his lantern in his face and then turned to the ambitious Brigham.

"Git up, Brig!" he rasped. "It's almost day! Wranglers!"

"Oh, my Lord!" moaned Brigham, turning to hide his face, but the round-up cook was inexorable and at last he had his way. Then as the wranglers clumped away to saddle their night-horses the dishpan clanged out its brazen summons and one by one the cowboys stirred and rose. Last of all rose Bat Wing Bowles, for his head was heavy with sleep; but a pint of the cook's hot coffee brought him back to life again, and he was ready for another day.

Shrill yells rose from the far corner of the horse pasture; there was a rumble of feet, a din of hoofbeats growing nearer, and then with a noise like thunder the remuda poured into the corral. A scamper of ponies and the high-pitched curses of the riders told where the outlaws were being turned back from a break; and then the bars went up and the wranglers ran shivering to the fire.

"Pore old Brig!" observed Bar Seven with exaggerated concern. "He was up all night!"

"What's the matter?" inquired another. "Feet hurt 'im?"

"No," said Bar Seven sadly; "it was his haid!"

Brigham looked up from his cup of coffee and said nothing. Then, seeing many furtive eyes upon him, he laughed shortly, and filled his cup again.

"Yore eyes look kinder bad, Seven," he said. "Must've kinder strained 'em last night."

"Nope," answered Bar Seven, upon whom the allusion was not lost; and with this delicate passage at arms the subject of big stories was dropped. Henry Lee came down, there was a call for horses, and in the turmoil of roping and mounting the matter was forgotten. Brigham had scored a victory and he was satisfied, while the stray men were biding their time. So the marvels of the Hippodrome were held in reserve, and the round-up supplied the excitement.

As the riding of bronks progressed, the accidents that go with such work increased. Almost every morning saw its loose horse racing across the flats, and the number of receptive candidates for the job of day-herding was swelled by the battle-scarred victims. Then fate stepped in, the scene was changed, and Bowles found himself a man again.

"Bowles," said Henry Lee, as he lingered by the fire, "can you drive a team?"

Visions of a flunky's job driving the bed-wagon rose instantly in his mind; but Bowles had been trained to truth-telling and he admitted that he could.

"Ever drive a wild team?" continued Lee, with a touch of severity.

"Well – no," answered Bowles. "I've driven spirited horses, such as we have in the East, but – "

"Think you could drive the grays to Chula Vista and back?"

"Oh, the grays!" cried Bowles, a sudden smile wreathing his countenance as he thought of that spirited pair. "Why, yes; I'm sure I could!"

"Oh," commented Henry Lee, as if he had his doubts; but after a quick glance at the self-sufficient youth he seemed to make up his mind. "Well," he said, "I'll get Hardy to hook 'em up – Mrs. Lee wants you to take her to town."

"Certainly," responded Bowles, turning suddenly sober. "I'll be very careful indeed."

"Yes," said the cattleman; "and if you can't drive, I want you to say so now."

"I've driven in the horse shows, Mr. Lee," answered Bowles. "You can judge for yourself."

"Oh, you have, have you?" And the keen gray eyes of Henry Lee seemed to add: "Then what are you doing out here?" But all he said was: "Very well."

Half an hour later, with his gloved hands well out to the front, and the whip in his right for emergencies, Bowles went racing southward behind the grays; while Mrs. Lee, her face muffled against the wind, was wondering at his skill. As a cowboy, Mr. Bowles had been a laughing-stock, but now he displayed all the courage and control of a Western stage-driver, with some of the style of a coachman thrown in.