Our arrival was heralded through the camp with the same rapidity with which gossip circulates, equally in a tenement alley or the upper crust of society.  The cook had informed us that we had been inquired for by some Panhandle man; so before we had finished hobbling, a stranger sang out across the ropes in the darkness, “Is Billy Edwards here?” Receiving an affirmative answer from among the horses’ feet, he added, “Come out, then, and shake hands with a friend.”

Edwards arose from his work, and looking across the backs of the circle of horses about him, at the undistinguishable figure at the rope, replied, “Whoever you are, I reckon the acquaintance will hold good until I get these horses hobbled.”

“Who is it?” inquired “Mouse” from over near the hind wheel of the wagon, where he was applying the hemp to the horses’ ankles.

“I don’t know,” said Billy, as he knelt among the horses and resumed his work,—­“some geranium out there wants me to come out and shake hands, pow-wow, and make some medicine with him; that’s all.  Say, we’ll leave Chino for picket, and that Chihuahua cutting horse of Coon’s, you have to put a rope on when you come to him.  He’s too touchy to sabe hobbles if you don’t.”

When we had finished hobbling, and the horses were turned loose, the stranger proved to be “Babe” Bradshaw, an old chum of Edwards’s.  The Spade cook added an earthly laurel to his temporal crown with the supper to which he shortly invited us.  Bradshaw had eaten with the general wagon, but he sat around while we ate.  There was little conversation during the supper, for our appetites were such and the spread so inviting that it simply absorbed us.

“Don’t bother me,” said Edwards to his old chum, in reply to some inquiry.  “Can’t you see that I’m occupied at present?”

We did justice to the supper, having had no dinner that day.  The cook even urged, with an earnestness worthy of a motherly landlady, several dishes, but his browned potatoes and roast beef claimed our attention.  “Well, what are you doing in this country anyhow?” inquired Edwards of Bradshaw, when the inner man had been thoroughly satisfied.

“Well, sir, I have a document in my pocket, with sealing wax but no ribbons on it, which says that I am the duly authorized representative of the Panhandle Cattle Association.  I also have a book in my pocket showing every brand and the names of its owners, and there is a whole raft of them.  I may go to St. Louis to act as inspector for my people when the round-up ends.”

“You’re just as windy as ever, Babe,” said Billy.  “Strange I didn’t recognize you when you first spoke.  You’re getting natural now, though.  I suppose you’re borrowing horses, like all these special inspectors do.  It’s all right with me, but good men must be scarce in your section or you’ve improved rapidly since you left us.  By the way, there is a man or four lying around here that also represents about forty-seven brands.  Possibly you’d better not cut any of their cattle or you might get them cut back on you.”