“When young John wakes up next mornin’ he is layin’ under a tree, mighty sick.  He sees he is up on the high mesa, but he don’ know how he got there; only his pony is grazin’ near by, with reins all tromped and the saddle ’way up on his withers.  John sets up and rubs his eyes, and there he sees ole Demijohn settin’ in the grass chucklin’ to hisself, and his back is turned to young John, for he don’t care nohow for a fella when he is sick.  Ole Demijohn is always feelin’ good, no matter how his friends feel.  Well, young John thinks a while, and pretty soon he moseys over to a spring and gets a big, cold drink and washes his head, and feels better.

“He never knowed that just plain water tasted so good till that mornin’.  Then he sets awhile, smellin’ of the clean pine air and listenin’ to the wind runnin’ loose in the tree-tops and watchin’ the clouds driftin’ by, white and clean and proud-like.  Pretty soon he rares up and walks over to the tree where ole Demijohn sets rockin’ up and down and chucklin’.  He takes a holt of Demijohn by the shoulder, and he says:  ’You darned ole hocus, you, I lost my job, and I’m broke, lopin’ around this country with you.’

“‘Forget it!’ says ole Demijohn.  ‘Ain’t I good comp’ny?’

“‘Mebby you be—­for some folks,’ says young John.  ’But not for me.  You don’t belong up in this here country; you belong back in town, and I reckon you better fan it.’

“Ole Demijohn he laughed.  ‘You can’t run me off the range that easy,’ he says.

“‘I can’t, eh?’ says young John, and he pulls his gun and up and busts ole Demijohn over the head.  Then, bein’ a likely young fella, he shuts his jaw tight and fans it back to the ranch.  The fo’man is some surprised to see him come ridin’ up, whistlin’ like he owned the works.  Fellas what’s fired mostly looks for work some place else.  But young John got the idee that he owed it to hisself to make good where he started as a cow-hand.  ‘I busted my ole friend Demijohn over the head,’ he says to the fo’man.  ‘We ain’t friends no more.’

“The fo’man he grins.  ‘All right, Jack,’ he says.  ’But if I see him hangin’ round the corrals ag’in, or in the bunk-house, you needn’t to wait for me to tell you which way is north.’

“Well, young John had done a good job.  ’Course ole Demijohn used to come sneakin’ round in the moonlight, once in a spell, botherin’ some of the boys, but he stayed clear of young John.  And young John he took to ridin’ straight and hard and ‘tendin’ to business.  I ain’t sayin’ he ever got to be president or superintendent of a Sunday School, for this ain’t no story-book yarn; but he always held a good job when he wanted it, and he worked for a good boss—­which was hisself.”

Lorry grinned as he turned to Shoop.  “That ole Demijohn never got close enough to me to get busted on the head.”

“Them hosses is strayin’ down the creek,” said Shoop, rising.

They turned and rode north, somewhat to Lorry’s surprise.  The trail was ragged and steep, and led from the mesa to the canon bottom of the White River.  Before Lorry realized where they were, Jason loomed before them on the mesa below.