“It’s strange, she is not around somewhere,” said Patches.

“It would be more strange if she was,” retorted the cowboy shortly, and he looked from the calf to the distant Tailholt Mountain, as though he were considering some problem which he did not, for some reason, care to share with his companion.

“There’s not much use to look for her,” he added, with grim disappointment.  “That’s always the way.  If we had ridden this range yesterday, instead of away over there in the Mint Wash country—­I am always about a day behind.”

There was something in the manner and in the quiet speech of the usually sunny-tempered foreman that made his companion hesitate to ask questions, or to offer comment with the freedom that he had learned to feel that first day of their riding together.  During the hours that followed Phil said very little, and when he did speak his words were brief and often curt, while, to Patches, he seemed to study the country over which they rode with unusual care.  When they had eaten their rather gloomy lunch, he was in the saddle again almost before Patches had finished, with seemingly no inclination for their usual talk.

The afternoon, was nearly gone, and they were making their way homeward when they saw a Cross-Triangle bull that had evidently been hurt in a fight.  The animal was one of the Dean’s much-prized Herefords, and the wound needed attention.

“We’ve got to dope that,” said Phil, “or the screwworms will be working in it sure.”  He was taking down his riata and watching the bull, who was rumbling a sullen, deep-voiced challenge, as he spoke.

“Can I help?” asked Patches anxiously, as he viewed the powerful beast, for this was the first full-grown animal needing attention that he had seen in his few days’ experience.

“No,” returned Phil.  “Just keep in the clear, that’s all.  This chap is no calf, and he’s sore over his scrap.  He’s on the prod right now.”

It all happened in a few seconds.

The cowboy’s horse, understanding from long experience that this threatening mark for his master’s riata was in no gentle frame of mind, fretted uneasily as though dreading his part in the task before them.  Patches saw the whirling rope leave Phil’s hand, and saw it tighten, as the cowboy threw the weight of his horse against it; and then he caught a confused vision—­a fallen, struggling horse with a man pinned to the ground beneath him, and a wickedly lowered head, with sharp horns and angry eyes, charging straight at them.

Patches did not think—­there was no time to think.  With a yell of horror, he struck deep with both spurs, and his startled, pain-maddened horse leaped forward.  Again he spurred cruelly with all his strength, and the next bound of his frenzied mount carried him upon those deadly horns.  Patches remembered hearing a sickening rip, and a scream of fear and pain, as he felt the horse under him rise in the air.  He never knew how he managed to free