himself, as he fell backward with his struggling mount, but he distinctly saw Phil regain his saddle while his horse was in the very act of struggling to its feet, and he watched with anxious interest as the cowboy forced his excited mount in front of the bull to attract the beast’s wicked attention.  The bull, accepting the tantalizing challenge, charged again, and Patches, with a thrill of admiration for the man’s coolness and skill, saw that Phil was coiling his riata, even while his frightened horse, with terrific leaps, avoided those menacing horns.  The bull stopped, shook his head in anger over his failure, and looked back toward the man on foot.  But again that horse and rider danced temptingly before him, so close that it seemed he could not fail, and again he charged, only to find that his mad rush carried him still further from the helpless Patches.  And by now, Phil had recovered his riata, and the loop was whirling in easy circles about his head.  The cow-horse, as though feeling the security that was in that familiar motion of his master’s arm, steadied himself, and, in the few active moments that followed, obedient to every signal of his rider, did his part with almost human intelligence.

When the bull was safely tied, Phil went to the frightfully injured horse, and with a merciful bullet ended the animal’s suffering.  Then he looked thoughtfully at Patches, who stood gazing ruefully at the dead animal, as though he felt himself to blame for the loss of his employer’s property.  A slight smile lightened the cowboy’s face, as he noticed his companion’s troubled thought.

“I suppose I’ve done it now,” said Patches, as though expecting well-merited censure.

Phil’s smile broadened.  “You sure have,” he returned, as he wiped the sweat from his face.  “I’m much obliged to you.”

Patches looked at him in confused embarrassment.

“Don’t you know that you saved my life?” asked Phil dryly.

“But—­but, I killed a good horse for the Dean,” stammered Patches.

To which the Dean’s foreman returned with a grin, “I reckon Uncle Will can stand the loss—­considering.”

This relieved the tension, and they laughed together.

“But tell me something, Patches,” said Phil, curiously.  “Why didn’t you shoot the bull when he charged me?”

“I didn’t think of it,” admitted Patches.  “I didn’t really think of anything.”

The cowboy nodded with understanding approval.  “I’ve noticed that the man to tie to, in sudden trouble, is the man who doesn’t have to think; the man, I mean, who just does the right thing instinctively, and waits to think about it afterwards when there’s time.”

Patches was pleased.  “I did the right thing, then?”

“It was the only thing you could do to save my life,” returned Phil seriously.  “If you had tried to use your gun—­even if you could have managed to hit him—­you wouldn’t have stopped him in time.  If you had been where you could have put a bullet between his eyes, it might have worked, but”—­he smiled again—­“I’m mighty glad you didn’t think to try any experiments.  Tell me something else,” he added.  “Did you realize the chance you were taking for yourself?”