“Isbel, you’re discharged,” I said, shortly.  “Take your outfit and get out.  Lee will lend you a pack horse.”

“Wal, I ain’t fired,” drawled Isbel.  “I quit before you rode in.  Beat you to it!”

“Then if you quit it seems to me you are taking liberties with supplies you have no right to,” I replied.

“Nope.  Cook of any outfit has a right to all the chuck he wants.  That’s western way.”

“Isbel, listen to this and then get out,” I went on.  “You’ve wasted our supplies just to get us to hurry and break camp.  As for western ways I know something of them.  It’s a western way for a man to be square and honest in his dealings with an outsider.  In all my years and in all my trips over the southwest you are the first westerner to give me the double-cross.  You have that distinction.”

Then I turned my back upon him and walked to my tent.  His acquaintances left at once, and he quickly packed and followed.  Faithful old Doyle took up the duties of cook and we gained, rather than missed by the change.  Our supplies, however, had been so depleted that we could not stay much longer on the hunt.

By dint of much determination as to the manner and method of my next hunt I managed to persuade myself that I could make the best of this unlucky sojourn in the woods.  No rifle, no horse worth riding, no food to stay out our time—­it was indeed bad luck for me.  After supper the tension relaxed.  Then I realized all the men were relieved.  Only Romer regretted loss of Isbel.  When the Doyles and Haughts saw how I took my hard luck they seemed all the keener to make my stay pleasant and profitable.  Little they knew that their regard was more to me than material benefits and comforts of the trip.  To travelers of the desert and hunters and riders of the open there are always hard and uncomfortable and painful situations to be met with.  And in meeting these, if it can be done with fortitude and spirit that win the respect of westerners, it is indeed a reward.

Next day, in defiance of a thing which never should be considered—­luck—­I took Haught’s rifle again, and my lazy, sullen, intractable horse, and rode with Edd and George down into Horton Thicket.  At least I could not be cheated out of fresh air and beautiful scenery.

We dismounted and tied our horses at the brook, and while Edd took the hounds up into the dense thicket where the bears made their beds, George and I followed a trail up the brook.  In exactly ten minutes the hounds gave tongue.  They ran up the thicket, which was favorable for us, and from their baying I judged the bear trail to be warm.  In the dense forest we could not see five rods ahead.  George averred that he did not care to have a big cinnamon or a grizzly come running down that black thicket.  And as for myself I did not want one so very exceedingly much.  I tried to keep from letting the hounds excite me, which effort utterly failed.  We kept