“He sure has not shaved again?” another inquired, with concern.

“I ain’t got my opera-glasses on,” answered a third.

“He has spared that pansy-blossom mustache,” said a fourth.

“My spring crop,” remarked young Lin, rounding on this last one, “has juicier prospects than that rat-eaten catastrophe of last year’s hay which wanders out of your face.”

“Why, you’ll soon be talking yourself into a regular man,” said the other.

But the camp laugh remained on the side of young Lin till breakfast was ended, when the ranch foreman rode into camp.

Him Lin McLean at once addressed.  “I was wantin’ to speak to you,” said he.

The experienced foreman noticed the boy’s holiday appearance.  “I understand you’re tired of work,” he remarked.

“Who told you?” asked the bewildered Lin.

The foreman touched the boy’s pretty handkerchief.  “Well, I have a way of taking things in at a glance,” said he.  “That’s why I’m foreman, I expect.  So you’ve had enough work?”

“My system’s full of it,” replied Lin, grinning.  As the foreman stood thinking, he added, “And I’d like my time.”

Time, in the cattle idiom, meant back-pay up to date.

“It’s good we’re not busy,” said the foreman.

“Meanin’ I’d quit all the same?” inquired Lin, rapidly, flushing.

“No—­not meaning any offence.  Catch up your horse.  I want to make the post before it gets hot.”

The foreman had come down the river from the ranch at Meadow Creek, and the post, his goal, was Fort Washakie.  All this part of the country formed the Shoshone Indian Reservation, where, by permission, pastured the herds whose owner would pay Lin his time at Washakie.  So the young cow-puncher flung on his saddle and mounted.

“So-long!” he remarked to the camp, by way of farewell.  He might never be going to see any of them again; but the cow-punchers were not demonstrative by habit.

“Going to stop long at Washakie?” asked one.

“Alma is not waiter-girl at the hotel now,” another mentioned.

“If there’s a new girl,” said a third, “kiss her one for me, and tell her I’m handsomer than you.”

“I ain’t a deceiver of women,” said Lin.

“That’s why you’ll tell her,” replied his friend.

“Say, Lin, why are you quittin’ us so sudden, anyway?” asked the cook, grieved to lose him.

“I’m after some variety,” said the boy.

“If you pick up more than you can use, just can a little of it for me!” shouted the cook at the departing McLean.

This was the last of camp by Bull Lake Crossing, and in the foreman’s company young Lin now took the road for his accumulated dollars.

“So you’re leaving your bedding and stuff with the outfit?” said the foreman.

“Brought my tooth-brush,” said Lin, showing it in the breast-pocket of his flannel shirt.