“Oh, it wasn’t his fault,” protested Dell; “he only loaned his pistol, and it was returned with the hammer on a cartridge.”

“Of course,” disgustedly assented the trail boss; “with me it’s an old story.  Hadn’t no more sabe than to lend his gun to some prowling tenderfoot.  More than likely he urged its loan on this short-horn.  Yes, I know Colonel Forrest; I’ve known him to bet his saddle and ride bareback as the result.  It shows his cow-sense.  Rather shallow-brained to be allowed so far from home.”

“Well,” contended poor Dell, “they surely were no friends.  At least Mr. Quince don’t speak very highly of that man.”

“That’s his hindsight,” said the trail foreman.  “If the truth ever comes out, you’ll notice his foresight was different.  Colonel Quince is famous, after the horse is stolen, for locking the stable door.  That other time he offered to take an oath, on a stack of Bibles, never to bet his saddle again.  The trouble is the game never repeats; the play never comes up twice alike.  If that old boy’s gray matter ever comes to full bloom, long before his allotted time, he’ll wither away.”

Dell was discouraged.  He realized that his defense of his friend was weak.  This second foreman seemed so different from either Priest or Forrest.  He spoke with such deep regret of the seeming faults of others that the boy never doubted his sincerity.  He even questioned Dell with such an innocent countenance that the lad withered before his glance, and became disheartened at the success of the errand.  Forced to the defense continually, on several occasions Dell nearly betrayed the object of bringing the new man to the homestead, but in each instance was saved by some fortunate turn in the conversation.  Never was sight more welcome than the tent, glistening in the sun, and never was relief from duty more welcome to a courier.  The only crumb of comfort left to the boy who had ridden forth so boldly was that he had not betrayed the object of his mission and had brought the range men together.  Otherwise his banner was trailing in the dust.

The two rode direct to the tent.  During the middle of the day, in order to provide free ventilation, the walls were tucked up, and the flaps, rear and front, thrown wide open.  Stretched on his bunk, Forrest watched the opening, and when darkened by the new arrival, the wounded man’s greeting was most cordial.  “Well, if it isn’t old Nat Straw,” said he, extending his hand.  “Here, I’ve been running over in my mind the different trail bosses who generally go north of the Platte River, but you escaped my memory.  It must have gotten into my mind, somehow, that you had married and gone back to chopping cotton.  Still driving for Uncle Jess Ellison, I reckon?”

“Yes, still clerking for the same drover,” admitted Straw, glancing at the wounded limb.  “What’s this I hear about you laying off, and trying to eat some poor nester out of house and home?  You must be getting doty.”