Andy Green, well and none too favorably known down Rocking R way, and lately adopted into the Happy Family on the recommendation of Pink and his own pleasing personality, looped the latigo into the holder, gave his own dancing steed a slap of the don’t-try-to-run-any-whizzers-on-me variety, and went over to help out Blink.

Blink eyed his approach with much the same expression with which he eyed the horse.  “I never hollered for assistance,” he remarked grudgingly when Andy was at his elbow.  “When I can’t handle any of the skates in my string, I’ll quit riding and take to sheep-herding.”  Whereupon he turned his back as squarely as he might upon Andy and made another stealthy grab for the sorrel’s ears. (There is such a thing in the range-land as jealousy among riders, and the fame of Andy Green had gone afar.)

“All right.  Just as you say, and not as I care a darn,” Andy retorted, and went back to where his own mount stood tail to the wind.  He did not in the least mind the rebuff; he really felt all the indifference his manner portrayed—­perhaps even more.  He had offered help where help was needed, and that ended it for him.  It never occurred to him that Blink might feel jealous over Andy’s hard-earned reputation as a “tamer of wild ones,” or mistake his good nature for patronage.

Five minutes later, when Chip looked around comprehensively at the lot of them in various degrees of readiness; saw that Blink was still fighting silently for mastery of the sorrel and told Andy to go over and help him get saddled, Andy said nothing of having had his services refused, but went.  This time, Blink also said nothing, but accepted in ungracious surrender the assistance thus thrust upon him.  For on the range-land, unless one is in a mind to roll his bed and ride away, one does not question when the leader commands.  Andy’s attitude was still that of indifference; he really thought very little about Blink or his opinions, and the rapid blinking of the pale lashes was quite lost upon him.

They rode, eighteen ill-natured, uncomfortable cowboys, tumultuously away from the camp, where canvas bulged and swayed, and loose corners cracked like pistol shots, over the hill where even the short, prairie grass crouched and flattened itself against the sod; where stray pebbles, loosened by the ungentle tread of pitching hoofs, skidded twice as far as in calm weather.  The gray sky bent threateningly above them, wind-torn into flying scud but never showing a hint of blue.  Later there might be rain, sleet, snow—­or sunshine, as nature might whimsically direct; but for the present she seemed content with only the chill wind that blew the very heart out of a man.

Whenever Chip pulled up to turn off a couple of riders that they might search a bit of rough country, his voice was sharp with the general discomfort.  When men rode away at his command, it was with brows drawn together and vengeful heels digging the short-ribs of horses in quite as unlovely a mood as themselves.